The conversation shifts gears, from Syria to Hilary. Will she, won't she?
I anaesthetise my young boys with treats and technology. Please just let me have a moment of peace.
I am counting down the days until my husband arrives. I miss him. I also miss, desperately, the ability to escape for an hour or three.
I flip through the paper. No surprise, the cartoonists sum up the events of the day best with just a few squiggly lines and well chosen words. Boom.
I tune back in. The men are now talking domestic policy, sharing their exasperation at the absence of a science minister and befuddlement over last night's #qanda. I want to add in my two cents.
I have something to say here in a way I never will about the goings on in Silicon Valley. Just as importantly, I have people to say it to.
We leave the cafe, and I ready myself for the sort of shopping experience I could just as easily have in the US at a generic and dreary discount department store. The only thing that distinguishes this store from any other are the rows and rows of packaged lollies. And even though they are second rate home brand versions of my childhood favourites I still have to restrain myself, cutting a bargain that will no doubt be broken before the week is out.
At the self-serve check-out - the only sort on offer - we ring up our purchases. A clothes horse to hang washing that I would normally lazily throw in the dryer; track suit pants for the kids that are so cheap I would rather not reflect too hard on the conditions under which they were made; and a bag of crappy plastic pirate figures and "accessories" that I plan to point at each time the boys demand an electronic.
Today I missed home a little bit. Not only my husband, but also the dog and - if I am being completely honest - the dryer. When the kids weren't shouting at each other they were shouting at me. Mostly it felt like the opposite of a holiday.
Maybe that is a good thing. If it doesn't feel like a holiday then it must mean that we are, in a sense, home.