The cashier nods down to the collection box on the counter and fixes me with a startlingly intense stare. Do I want to donate? That’s a question I wasn’t prepared to answer when I stepped into WHSmiths for a White Americano and packet of Extra Strong Mints for the youngest.
The people in the line are watching, judging. The youngest is watching, judging too. But also I guess looking for guidance on what to do the next time someone in a shop asks him if he wants to donate. The truth is, I don't. For some reason the disdain I feel for people I don’t know asking me for money far outweighs any compassion I might feel for the poor and needy. Especially when they’re wearing yellow ears. But she’s still staring, and it doesn’t look like the transaction is going any further without an answer. Which means a dozen people’s day has been halted as a result of my callous indecision.
This morning I ordered an Americano instead of a Latte. With hot milk for prolonged rapture. And it made me wonder where this is going. I’m guessing the next step is drop the milk. Then add an extra shot (whatever that is). Then two extra shots, then three, four - I don’t know, what’s the maximum? When do they pat you on the shoulder and say ‘I think you’ve had enough son’ and alert the security staff to see you off the premises?
For years I held out against coffee. It was tea all the way, the comforting and benign ritual of bubbly water on herby pillows. The aural equivalent of a hot bath - every half hour. Because that’s the thing about tea. It’s such a non event that you just keep doing it. Not so much a drink as a periodic change of texture. In those days the coffee drinkers were a dark and mysterious under-class. Masters of the infernal filtering apparatus that summoned forth the pungent black liquid of their desire. I treated them with suspicion, nay disdain.
