On a rare coffee date, we share a croissant, stuffed with frangipani and crumbling almonds on the table, and our usual order - a large flat white and a small oat latte, although we rarely buy coffee out. We both have a spare lesson, so we've snuck away for a mock date. It feels indulgent. I take my knitting, and he leaves his phone in the car. For half an hour, we are connected to the life around us, to us, even, as we make plans for next year that we've been shy of and reluctant to engage with. We try to figure out how old we are - again. We both feel old.

Now, if there's any object to carry into a cafe that will engage people in conversation (that's not a puppy) it's knitting. I'm carrying a burnt orange ball of wool and the beginnings of a cowl, which I have to explain to people is like a scarf that's joined in the middle, a neck warmer for cycling.

The old women next to us, out for a mid morning coffee date with friends, leans over to chat about my tangled craft. She wants to tell me I look gorgeous, with my colourful green skirt, black leather converse and orange cardigan. She wishes she hadn't spent a lifetime looking so conventional. She's neatly turned out, with a blazer and a fake flower pinned at the lapel, sensible shoes and grey trousers. She's 82, she tells us. She looks like she's had a life, as many people in that area do, having led working class lives, hard lives.

She asks where we are from, and we tell her, and she says it figures - that people that live out of the city suburbs are less conventional, fresher, less encumbered. I don't quite agree, but I get her point. She says in another life she'd love a small house, just by the water, with a nautical theme, and not worry so much about what people think. Young people today, she says, want it all so quickly. Get married, get a mortage, car, house, kids. She argues one should live debt free and not need all of those things. We tell her we agree, utterly. We are charmed by each other. She repeats that I look beautiful, and I take the compliment, utterly. It's not one I recieve often.

On the other side, Valerie, as she's greeted by the service staff (she must be a regular) is saving 50 cent pieces for her grandson, the new ones with King Charles head. It's a small gesture because she can't gift him much, due to pension laws and taxes. She has a bright red coat and a white beanie with a pom pom. She's 96. I love how old people have to tell you their age, like kids will. She tells us we are not old at all - her ears are clearly young enough to overhear our conversation, even above the rattle of cutlery and the hiss of the coffee machine.

I think we'll come back here, I say to Jamie, eyeing off the cinnamon buns and fresh pretzels. Sit with the old ladies again, have a laugh, be inspired. He says I just want to come for the compliments. Maybe I do, I say. Maybe I do.

Turns out it's my day for it - when I get back to the staffroom, one of the young teachers stop to tell me that yesterday she wanted to tell me how lovely I looked in green.