Cappuccino Moment

Sitting drinking cappuccino made with coffee that is too strong - hard tasting coffee that offends my pathetically delicate palette - I've never been able to cope with full-on flavours like thick hard coffee, matured cheddar, blue cheese of any kind, tea stirred with iron girders, game foul or flesh.

I love the frothy milk thing about cappuccino. Its the best bit - slightly solid so you can eat it off the spoon, milky flavour full of bubbles so lighter tasting than straight milk.

I sit waiting for class wishing the coffee was a weaker blend. A woman in a wheelchair comes in. Everything in the cafe is stacked against her. The counter is over her head. The waitress has to lean over the till to deal with the money. Even the sugar is out of reach. I can't imagine how difficult it must be to be in that position.

I've had to over-sugar the coffee to make it drinkable. Its so strong it has dyed the froth medium dark brown as it hangs against the side of the cup.

I'm sitting in a part of the cafe that is a sound tunnel - the floor, walls and ceiling are all covered with pine planks. Everybody has to walk through it to the larger seating area. Its amazing which are the heavy-footed people. Worst is a very stylish beautiful young woman in a black mac and three quarter length flares whose stiletto-bound footsteps shake the table.

A woman has joined my table because there is nowhere else for her to sit. She enjoying a hot chocolate and an egg mayo sandwich. She popped the almond croissant afters into her bag guiltily for later. I think she's an academic - she's got those half-moon glasses for reading held round her neck by a chord so as not to lose them anywhere. She's reading and annotating a paper. Once she's finished the sandwich she brings the almond croissant back out. Tearing fragments off and placing them in her mouth, dusty and moist, her fingers covered in oil from the almond paste, sugar and flakes of croissant pastry. She doesn't look up at all through the whole coissant. She has the most amazing shiny hair.

There's a man across the aisle with his laptop plugged in. He has a down-turned mouth. I wonder what he'd look like if he smiled. His face would be lifted 10 years I expect. He's busy on a document of some sort, but he's not a typist. He does a version of three finger typing. 3 on one hand, 2 on the other. He uses the little finger of the right hand to put the caps lock on. I'm finding it strange that the caps lock is on that side.

And as the time clicks onto 6.48pm I have to gather my things and head off, leaving the cold dregs of the hard coffee.