valentine's day, on which I love the java jive and it loves me

(as long as I lie still and don't try to eat anything)

Well, children, Ms B never made it through her day. One bite of sausage had to be spat out unswallowed, with a grimace, and halfway through a meeting - well, I won't tell you what it was like. Not nice. And so dizzy! So I left, and came home, where I have lain ever since like a dishrag under my beloved falling-apart eiderdown (known hereabouts as the Father Ted blanket, because one exactly exactly like it once appeared on Father Ted, and we bought it from a vintage shop in Islington where I know they get that kind of stuff in). The baroque temperature is a bit high, and the baroque head still spinning, but I ate some lentil soup will no ill effects (you'll be pleased to know). I guess I'm not going to brave the Tim Wells lot at the Camden Head tonight...

On my way home, because I was feeling very strange and weird, but for some reason coffee isn't bothering my stomach - only food is - I stopped at Giraffe to get a coffee to give me strength to go the rest of the way. (Lame or what.) Nice Italian guy in there, with his row of slips along the counter with the orders printed on: the usual. On one of them sits a black coffee, nicely full. The slip says "americano."

I asked for my coffee. While he was making it, the senior waiter comes, picks up this cup ad holds it in front of him, and says: "tell me where the customer's going to add the milk in this!"

My guy goes, "wha - ?"

"Tell me where the customer is going to put the milk." says the head honcho, menacingly.

My guy stammers something which I think might have been, and I hope to hell was, to the effect that "americano" bloody means "black coffee", and no, it doesn't have milk in it, because if it did it would be a white coffee and not an americano. Trust me, I have looked it up. And I hate receiving an americano only half full (which is not the same as when you ask for a double espresso, as I often do, or even a double espresso topped up with jut a bit of hot water, which can, strangely, taste even stronger than an espresso and also lasts longer) almost as much as I hate having to answer the daft milk question every time.

Head honcho puts the coffee down and walks off, muttering something unpleasant.

My guy puts my coffee on the counter, and tips the offending now-stone-cold wasted americano down the drain. I hand him a fiver. He goes to the till and calls out a request for "the key," but there is no response. He asks again for the key. No one comes. After about seven seconds he comes back and hands me my fiver. To my raised eyebrows he replies, "next time, madame." Then he looks at me kindly yet sharply and says, almost-but-not-quite bitterly: "Happy San Valentino Day!"

And if that hasn't cheered you up yet, try this little bagatelle: