25th February - The Starbucks Failure

I don’t know what it is, but since coming away to London yesterday, Starbucks does not appear to have been my friend. Liverpool Street Starbucks – the one that began what I think it’s fair to call a habitual obsession when d explained to me that you could have the coffee as you wanted it, if you were actually prepared to use their godawful, ghastly terminology (Really? A small coffee is Tall? Sort it out, Starbucks, you’re a disgrace to the linguistically logical world!), was having none of it. Big notice on the counter: “Fuuuuuuuuuuck Youuuuu!”

Well, fine, maybe not quite that, but it might as well have been. “We’re not set up to accept Starbucks cards. Or the app payments,” it actually declared. Which I maintain, for us hip, hot happening dudes is the equivalent of a hearty “Fuuuuuuuuuuck Youuuuu!”

Of course, I didn’t arrive at Liverpool Street, I arrived at Paddington. In a winter sweater and an overcoat and a hat. Somehow, the idea of grabbing a piping hot cup of coffee to boot just didn’t appeal.

So the first one I had was this morning, prior to going for a job interview.  I was halfway up the road with the cup of rather nice pointlessness (or a venti skinny de-caff latte, as those of you who’ve followed my ranting for a while will have remembered…saddos!) belched. I have no idea how it did that – I didn’t squeeze it, and physics would rather suggest I would have had to have done. Suddenly, there was what can only be described as an ejaculation of hot coffee, all the way down my pristine white interview shirt.

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!!!” I yelled, quietly. No really, it’s entirely possible to yell quietly: it’s all in the timbre. Try it, go on…

I dashed into the office, which by that point was thankfully near, and basically doused myself in cold water. Gotta love a wet shirt contest, haven’t you? Weirdly though, it seemed to do the trick, and when I didn’t get the job, I at least had the satisfaction of knowing it was my own fundamental incapability, rather than my coffee-stained shirt, that was responsible.

Going back to Wendy’s place in Ipswich tonight brought me back to Liverpool Street and The Sign. Took everything in me not to flick them a sign of my own as I went past.

Tomorrow, dammit, there’s a Starbucks or two with my name on them, before I go home.