The disappointingly gruesome nature of yesterday’s beverage left me little option but to seek pastures new, and after a gruelling slog along bone-dry London streets my rippling thigh muscles squeaked with joy as I graced the sofa of this quaint little haunt. Once again I observe with mirth as a parade of temptresses feign disinterest and bewilderment. Do they truly believe that a gentleman so well-versed in the romantic arts as myself should remain ignorant of their longing?! At times I struggle to suppress a deep and bellowing laugh. As we speak the enchantress to my left is likely gazing amorously in my direction.

A man should drink that which accurately reflects his nature. For this reason I have opted for the Columbian Roast – a delightful and mysterious brew that never fails to elicit a yelp of pleasure from all those whose lips it graces. Dark, powerful, profound. One frankly struggles to maintain composure when raising the mug to one’s mouth. I observe with wonderment as sugar cubes spin like angels falling from a great height, twirling magisterially into the plunging abyss below. Milk, flowing with the vigour of an Amazonian tributary dives deep below the surface, swirling, climbing, a pure-white ballerina locked in a haunting dance, a swan escaping the clutches of Death with nimble joy.

I digress.

My morning stroll is the subject of our next adventure. Sated by my hard-won dinner I found my brows drooping alluringly over my eyeballs at the midnight hour. I slept wonderfully, my mind agog with mirthful dreams of breakfast. As the sun cast its glorious midsummer rays across the landscape, I too arose, my presence enlivening the room with similar aplomb. I threw on a delightfully fashionable little number and bolted through the front door, heading for the park. Little did I know what lay in wait.

My pace quickened, my gait lengthened, my step became ever more assured. Left foot followed right, right followed left, only for left to find itself overtaken by right once again! And so on. What a figure I must have cut! The wind was brisk and sharp, the trees bent forwards as though bowing their leafy heads in my direction. Leaves swept along the road behind me, a legion of two-dimensional followers desperate to catch their charismatic leader.

BANG!

I lay prostrate on the cold earth, maintaining total control on the situation as I staggered to my feet. I immediately identified my nemesis. Tall of stature, triangular of head, a traffic sign stood mockingly over me having successfully halted my innocent march along the road with a blow to the face. Was this sweet revenge for the many cousins of his I had flattened in my Nissan Micra, I wondered? I swiftly assessed my surroundings, and unleashed a furious slap. Instantly I recoiled in shock, my palm smarting as though whipped by Lucifer himself. My supple flesh was no match for this filthy metallic adversary. A strip of jet-black dust marked the wound. My courage deserted me – I fled, tears obscuring my vision.

Weaving between suited pedestrians like a fox I darted through the cityscape, finally finding refuge at Mother’s house. Tea was thrust upon me without warning! Hands smarting from my earlier brush with mortality, I clutched the searing chalice for too long. In agony I flew towards the sink, dousing the wound as best I could.  Overcome with the brutality of my morning’s misadventure I sunk to the floor. My eyes snapped shut instantaneously, and I slept long and heartily. Upon awakening I slipped glamorously from Mother’s abode and completed my journey to the cafe in which we currently find ourselves, dear reader.

What’s this? Why, a waiter is travelling towards me, bearing a quite marvellously delectable slice of pie! Be still my beating heart, be still! It floats eerily in my direction as I speak, the room fading by comparison. Imagine dear reader, the luscious exterior, the crunchy base crumbling ever so slowly as my fork into its interior delves. I can reach out and touch it.

Oh, horror! The waiter appears to have passed me by. The pie has been placed on the table of another man. What a Shakespearian fool am I, cuckolded by that which I most desire. He is taking a bite. The deed is done. The pain of consciousness is too great – I find myself once again overpowered by the clutch of sleep.