This Isn’t an Office, It’s a Flat White and a Prayer | My Soho Times

Flat Whites, Wifi & Silent Community: Inside Soho’s New Work Ritual

In a city addicted to productivity, noise, and hustle, it’s the quiet places that are holding us together. Across Soho, cafés have evolved from casual coffee spots into something more essential — the unofficial workspaces of London. Here, amidst the hiss of espresso machines and the low hum of easy-listening jazz, people gather not to mingle, but to simply get things done. No name badges. No small talk. No networking.

In this exclusive piece, former Westminster strategist turned political firebrand Peter C. Barnes — whose views often reflect controversial right-leaning perspectives — turns his wry gaze away from Parliament and toward Soho’s café culture, where flat whites replace policy briefings and the unspoken rules of London life are playing out in real time. Written with sharp humour and tender honesty, he explores how these spaces have become quiet sanctuaries — and why you should think twice before asking for a teaspoon…

---

This Isn’t an Office, It’s a Flat White and a Prayer

While CEOs beg us back to their glass towers, real work is happening in Soho’s caffeine-fuelled caves — where politics, startups, and strangers all plug in under the same jazz playlist. Nobody talks. Everybody types. And the seat you’ve just taken was definitely someone else’s.

Once upon a time, Soho was the place you came after work — a post-5pm maze of bars, bistros, and just enough chaos to make you feel alive again. But somewhere between lockdowns, Zoom fatigue, and the death of the traditional office, Soho quietly reinvented itself.

Now? It’s the office.

Laptops glow beneath pendant lighting. Espresso machines hiss in the background. Meetings happen over matcha. Emails get written to the gentle hum of Miles Davis. You may call it romantic. I call it survival.

This isn’t co-working. It’s café-working. And in a city that’s barely functioning, Soho is the one part still getting anything done.

I come for the coffee, but I stay for the WiFi and the feeling I’m not alone.

Welcome to the new Soho commute — no lanyard required.

---

Why I’m Here (and Why You Might Be Too)

It’s 5:30am. The heat is already offensive. I was raised in the North — in a house so cold you kept your coat on indoors. I am not built for this. Never was. Never will be.

The air-con in my flat is broken — or possessed. Either way, I won’t pay a small fortune to get it fixed. And I cannot endure another conversation with Julie on reception about how “little Jimmy can now put his head under the water.” Good for him, Julie. Call me when he swims the Channel.

People assume I’m funny. I’m not. I’m sarcastic, short-tempered, and permanently seconds away from a full psychological collapse. Working from home doesn’t suit me. The office? Even worse. There’s a construction crew outside who’ve been digging the same bit of pavement since Cameron was in power.

There is only one option left: Soho.

And no, I wasn’t always a “Soho person.” The nightlife intimidates me. The queues give me hives. But then I started going during the day. The same clubs that reek of tequila at 1am? By noon, they smell of banana bread and possibility.

Soho Grind (Beak Street) is the obvious choice — all tiled walls, good WiFi, and people who look more productive than you’ll ever be. It’s where screenwriters weep quietly next to finance bros pretending they didn’t just open Excel.

And then there’s Milk Beach (inside James Court) on Greek Street — the Australian one. Calm. Sunlight through the windows. Nobody’s posturing. It’s the only place in central London where I’ve ever eaten scrambled eggs and felt emotionally understood.

I don’t go for the coffee. I go because, for three hours a day, I can pretend I’ve got my life together.

You stop trying to perform your life — and start living a little bit of it again.

Coming from politics — from the chaos of Parliament, newsrooms, briefing rooms, the endless churn — this pace is alien. But welcome. And strangely… necessary.

I’m 34, but depending on the lighting and filter, I could pass for 27 on a decent dating app. If Westminster ever develops anti-ageing serum, I’ll bathe in it.

Soho, by comparison, feels honest. Nobody here’s pretending they love working. But they’re doing it anyway. Quietly. Efficiently. Together — but not in a way that requires speaking. (Please don’t speak. I once asked a man for a teaspoon and he still hasn’t recovered. I believe he’s now somewhere just outside Newcastle.)

---

The Rules Are Silent — But Absolute

I’ve spent most of my career in Westminster. Loud rooms. Thick carpets. People who speak in full paragraphs. Everyone’s “delighted” to see each other and “grateful” for the chance to “have this important conversation” — usually about something nobody will actually do.

Soho is not that.

But what’s brilliant — what’s so specifically London — is that both places have rules. Unwritten ones. Deeply embedded, never spoken aloud, absolutely binding.

In Westminster, you must never look surprised. Never break rank. Never laugh too hard unless you’re already three pints in or three resignations down. In Soho? You can wear what you like, look like hell, type on a cracked laptop — but you do not speak to strangers.
That’s the rule.
You just know it.
Nobody tells you.
But God help you if you break it.

It’s community by proximity, not conversation — and that’s about as London as it gets.

You’ll learn to clock the regulars — and they’ll clock you. You’ll notice when someone’s not in their usual seat. You’ll create whole backstories for people you’ve never spoken to. One of them is called Clive (he isn’t). One of them once nodded at me (we are now essentially married).

It’s a quiet choreography. A dance we all pretend we’re not doing.
Do not talk to them.
Do not ask what they do.
Do not lean over to borrow a charger — you might as well declare war.

I asked for a teaspoon once. He’s still running. I think he’s reached Cumbria.

And honestly? Good. That’s how it should be. It’s not about isolation. It’s about respect.
This is not networking. This is caffeinated solitude. This is mutual unbotheredness.

Soho isn’t warm, exactly — but it is consistent. It gives you room. It lets you show up again and again. No questions asked.
It’s the closest London ever gets to grace.

---

London isn’t soft. It never was. I’ve seen its worst. I’ve worked inside it. I know the political rot, the economic cruelty, the commuter misery.
But I also know the smell of a warm croissant. The hiss of steamed milk. The steady routine of a seat that feels, bizarrely, like yours.
That matters.

We don’t need slogans or mission statements or key performance indicators.
We need sockets.
We need shade.
We need Clive on Thursdays with his lemon tart.
We need the man who always sits by the window — and the low jazz he hums along to.

We need to remember we’re not alone in this. Not really.

But what I’ve realised lately — and this snuck up on me, I won’t lie — is that this little corner of routine might be the only place in London where people are allowed to just be.
No networking.
No pressure.
No “hustle culture.”
Just human beings… being.

It’s not about the coffee. It’s not about the café. It’s about being allowed to exist — surrounded, unbothered, and finally at peace.

And so maybe that’s the point.
In a city where everything feels like it’s falling apart, maybe we find connection in the only place that’s still quietly holding it together.

Just — for everyone’s sake —
don’t talk to anyone.
And if you must…
ask for cutlery at your own risk.

Written by Peter C. Barnes for My Soho Times

Share your thoughts in the comment box below!

More from the blog:

Get social with us – follow and tag us! @mysohotimes #MySohoTimes