At Borders the other day, someone had nerve enough to sit at MY table.
Yes, "my" table. Mine, mine, mine!
This is a south-facing table. It's a well-known-sort-of-probably-true-fact that a south-facing table is good for the muse, not that I have one. If I did, though, she'd prefer me to face south. It's a double table, in the corner, right next to an outlet. Considering the fact that there are only 4 or 5 outlets in the place--and 2 are nowhere near the tables--this is a very good thing. It's also away from the door, meaning I won't freeze in the winter.
People often circle this table like a flock of ravenous vultures. Waiting...lurking...watching...licking their chops... I do the same thing. I freely admit it.
Each and every time that inconsiderate table-thief got up for a refill, pawed through his stuff (oooh, a Blackberry? Impressive!) or scratched his ass, I'm like: Is he leaving?? Is he leaving??
He didn't have a laptop. He was reading a BOOK. Now if it had been my book he was reading I might be more forgiving. I mean, look, dude, you can sit anywhere in the room, like over there...or over there... Yet he insisted on hogging my table, flipping through his book, sucking down a sissy latte, oblivious to my death rays.
For future reference, here's a picture of My Table:
Observe it. Commit it to memory. And in the future if you know I'm coming, do not sit at this table! Even if you don't know I'm coming, do not sit at this table because I might show up.
I need that outlet!