Saturday afternoon found me picking my way between puddles with very little on my agenda, too many hours in which to do it and limited resources. Then, I struck lucky. I don't know where Heaven is, but its waiting room may be in Croydon.
Four-seat booths with Formica-topped tables, bearing traditilonal condiments and tip-to-pour spouted sugar jars. Uniformly T-shirted waitresses who would regard Kate Moss as a snack. Good coffee, sold cheaply and served in the largest of mugs. Images of Elvis everywhere, leavened by the occasional Hepburn and Monroe. The world's least lifelike but certainly lifesize mannequin, resembling nobody, but clearly intended to be the aforementioned late rocker. So far, so what. All pleasingly kitsch, but not necessarily worth a visit other than to escape the showers.
They play taped music. Real, proper, old-fashioned music. I stayed until I was ejected as the last lingering customer, returning on Sunday. It's surprising how long a coffee can last, when one puts one's mind to it. The most recent waxing dated from 1970, with most having been around for at least four decades. From rockabilly to doo-wop, from surf to pure pop.
In case I've not made myself clear, I liked Sara's Diner. I shall return.