Scenes from the Hayes Island Cafe.

It was a perfect example of the Cardiff strut; top off, showing off a flat chest and flat stomach, all skin and bones my gran would say. His jeans were low slung with ‘Calvin Kein’ boxers peaking over the top - the typo revealing the fraud. He had tattoos up his arms and a bluebird on his chest. The look on his face that said don’t mess with me. His walk was an arrogant bounce, a cocksure swagger, he owned these streets and people gave him a wide birth. He thought he was unique but he was one of 6, 7 or 8 similar types that passed the café that hour.  

He snarled at the studenty couple on the bench, probably his age but a lifetime away in outlook. The male was in touch with his feminine side with his dyed yellow hair, converse boots and make up, while the female was in touch with her male side with her heavy army boots, laddered tights and wild, jet black hair that a floral band struggled to maintain. Their middle class accents and pretentious thoughts formed their words as they laughed and joked and, in their own way, thought they owned the streets too.

The students watched the old man shuffle passed dragging his shopping trolley along behind him as he went. His grey moustache drooped like his back, his heavy deerstalker hat and long trench coat were at odds with the sunny weather and temperatures nudging 28. He looked tired, down-trodded but somehow proud. At first he looked like he was talking to himself but as he neared them they heard the melody of the song he was gently singing.

The chuggers ignored the old man, he was not their demographic, instead they weaved intricate patterns with their feet; approaching and being ignored by the people they thought would have compassion or would be gullible enough to agree to a monthly donation to some charity or other. Despite the bait of good-looking youngsters with winning smiles, the chuggers were fighting a losing battle with people immune to their pleas for help.

Another battle raged, the battle for our ears, a three way battle between the overheating baby with precocious lungs, the busking boys with their jangly guitars and vaguely tuneful voices and the three brightly coloured head scarfs talking animatedly in a language I didn't recognise. But I could recognise facial expressions and it was clear the news was good and the future bright as the three women laughed and smiled at the stories being told.

Cardiff bustled and Cardiff hustled, Cardiff carried a bit too much weight and swore a bit too much, but in the sun shine it oozed with colour, teemed with characters and brimmed with curiosity.