Lovely, lovely Liverpool.

The Pool. "It's up north" they say. "A dark, damp place." But give the sky a lick of paint and suddenly the world is leaking out of its dark holes into the sunlight, hesitantly and childishly stepping off the threshold and into the city.

I was feeling mellow, so I wandered into Mellomello along slater street, in a forgotten yet revamped residential/industrial district with only one thing on my mind: Food. Mellomello is a vegan/vego/gluten free cafe and freelance art space with yoga classes and live gigs, and it has the yummiest vegetarian mung bean and mushroom curry. That paired with a strawberry and lime kopperberg and dining alone was a breeze. Once I get over the cringeworthy "table for one?" I am always completely happy just hanging out by myself eating at a pace that suits me and drinking away the "summer" afternoon. 

It's a place that people come to, wander in and out of, in order to feel less alone, like they're a part of something. They mould into the furniture, they are the furniture. You can tell by the three old tattered boxes of trivial pursuit stacked beside a broken typewriter and large, devilish quality speaker, and the way dust dances sheepishly along the ancient floorboards as people waltz through to another room. 

Liverpool itself, the land of the Beatles, is mildly gorgeous. There is just something about doing and seeing nothing that suits the place quite aptly. And I am okay with this.