Today I went to London. Just to see if it was real. I took a HUGE bag of Sandwich Spread sandwiches. Unfortunately the sandwiches were mostly gone by the time I got there. How did that happen? I wish I knew. Really. But it seems to happen almost every time I take home-made sandwiches with me. Bizarre. Anyway. It was an enjoyable trip; I do like the broadband WiFi on the journey.
Starbucks have taken the process of buying coffee, ripped the heart and soul out of the experience, burned the mortal remains until there is almost nothing left, liquidised the ashes in to a smoothie, fed the drink to a 23-year-old, lame, partially-sighted mule and then shot the mule. Twice. This afternoon I went in to a branch of Starbucks. The length of the queue should have put me off, but no, I stood in line with all the other lemons. As I slowly shuffled forwards, like a cold-war Babushka gradually taking root in a queue for half a loaf of mouldy bread in a Moscow bakers, I could hear the rat-a-tat interrogation of the guy behind the counter. All I wanted was a coffee. With every passing second, my desire to be *there*, in that queue, surrounded by tourists waiting for the inevitable ‘grande non-fat ice white mocha no whip rikki-tikki-tavi fellatio cunnilingus MOT-fail welding heinz 57 with extra giraffe and a side helping of kangaroo and brick catfood‘ interrogation at the cash till; my need to be *there* just unwrapped like the peel off an apple, and dropped away until all I had left was the word ‘coffee’. I turned and walked out.
Twitter is currently enduring my one-word-a-thon #twitterporn. I feel a bit sorry for it.
Chocolate is about to be taken, and accompanied by a mug of hot tea. Oh yes!