Coffee, white no sugar. Is it too much to ask, Casper?

All I want is a coffee.  Just a cup of coffee.  White, no sugar thanks.

It's amazing how difficult that is to get these days. Whatever happened to the white and no sugar please? Sadly, it's no longer fashionable, that what's happened to it.  Because if there is such a drink in the high street coffee house or department store cafe, it's been forced to have a name change. In some cases the end result has had a good Gok Wok-ing and been turned into something else, but the same. Plain is dull, plain is uncool, plain is...well, plain. Sandwiches are paninis. The white sliced is now ciabatta or rosetta, maggiolino and tartaruga.  Boys can't be called Colin anymore, it's Casper, girls are Mozarella or something or other.

Somewhat parched and mildy delirious after a lengthy shopping bout with my wife I ventured into a well- known high street coffee establishment.  Now that alone is a major shift in English culture that we seem to have quietly accepted, and I have no complaint there, as such.

"Just a coffee please...ordinary coffee..."
"Latte?"
"Just a coffee, thanks"
"Espresso Macchiato?"
" Ermmm...?"
"Iced Caffe Americano"
" Just a...."
" Lattecino, Moccaccino, Mokka..."
"...white, no su..."
" Breve, Espresso Romano, Espresso Ristretto, CaffÈ Freddo..."
" Look, all I want is a normal black coffee I can put some milk in and no s...."
" Espresso Con Panna, Cafecito, frappa thingy, wotta-chino, flappa wappa, giddy up a ding dong?"

(Pause)

"Can I have a cup of tea..?"
"Fair trade..?"

I left, still thirsty, sans caffeine and in a thoroughly unpleasant mood which was severely cranked further when my wife said, " Never mind....I just want to to pop into Clarks to see if they've got any shoes for work." 

Pop?  Pop? Name me a woman who has ever popped for shoes.

Next time, I'm taking a flask.

(PS...please feel free to leave a comment or join the site)

(PPS... Yes, the above does sound a little far fetched but honestly, it did happen, in Lincoln, even down to the shoes...ask my wife.  Particularly the shoes bit. Don't get me started.)

Men don't follow recipes...Idiot!

 

Why don't blokes follow instructions, or recipes for that matter?

There are plenty of recipe books on the shelf in the kitchen but I suspect I'm not alone in the male camp for not following the detail in any great detail too often.  My last scribble was indeed a recipe for smoked salmon tartlets.  I listed ingredients and procedures and then had to spoil it all by suggesting I'd probably tweak the mayo and chilli sauce.  There was an audible 'Tsk!' from some of the girls reading this thinking to themselves ' you just can't do as you're told, can you?'.

There are many examples of this well-documented male trait.  Our house is a shrine to the mighty Ikea.  Blood drains from my grown up sons faces if, should they be with us on a journey hear the words from their mother, 'Let's just pop in to Ikea while were there.'  Firstly, no one pops into Ikea. It's an expedition.  And the only way to get sons into the place is to calm them with plates of meat balls and the bizarre fruit sauce that seems to be the required companion.  Second; we only go to look at light fittings and end up spending close to the Greek national bailout fund on a selection of flat pack boxes all now deemed essential.

You can see where this is going.

Boxes now home are unopened I have set about the task of building 'Zaaaghul', or whatever it's called to personalise the handy storage facility that I have in front of me in pieces. There are copious instructions and lots of little plastic bags with exclusively designed brackets and bolts.  I undo everything and, ignoring the A4 instruction manual, pick up the big bits and find something to bolt them together with.

Two hours, and lots of appalling language in, and we have something more closely resembling a nest of tables than 'Zaaaghul' the handy storage facility.  Wife picks up A4 instruction manual while I look for a six inch long double-headed flange gusset. (parts :1).

"Typical." I moan. "There's always a bloody bit missing.  Sodding Ikea."

Wife eyes nest of tables for a nano-second.

"Look!...you've already used it!  You used it at  2b (ii) when you should have used it at
7g (iiiii).  No wonder it's wrong. Idiot! How can you mistake a six inch long double-headed flange gusset. (parts :1) for anything else!"

I won't continue, we all know the moral in the story.  Zaaaghul is now leading a happy life next to the washing machine happily storing shoe polish and light bulbs that may or may not work, no-one can remember.

But I still just can't help tweaking the chilli sauce while no-ones looking.  I'm a bloke.