Isn’t it funny though – they think they’re the main character, more fool them, they think everyone’s watching each muscle they tense, each deep breath, every brush of their hair, every well-placed foot as they walk past on their own individual exploits. Joke’s on them, I’m the one they should be watching. But they don’t know that, they couldn’t give a damn if I choose an Americano or a mocha – so maybe the joke’s on me.
No. No, the joke’s on them.
What joke anyway? None of this is even mildly amusing, I’m only here to escape that shiny fucking house, and I just walked into the first immodest café I could find. This place fitted the bill; I wanted to see the kind of people we’re supposed to be now, the Cotswolds family. And I’m the daughter that goes for coffees in places like this. Maybe I’m supposed to take boys here. Maybe boys are supposed to take me here. Maybe men. These places with timber beams, dark and aged, looking gloriously authentic. Old shit like that takes the prices up, easy. People like the old stuff, the ancient, others like the new and the young – either way they’ll pay a fuckload won’t they.
That’s why people come here, that’s why Tom wanted to move here, I’m sure the brochures raved about the timber fucking beams. Beams, leather chairs and mugs filled with froth.
I’ve just paid one pound extra for air to be blown into milk. But the Taylor’s can now, that’s what money really allows you, father, the choice, nay the obligation, to have Bubbles. Bubbles, that’s all, a child’s game, a child’s entertainment. Still, keeps the adults amused when combined with caffeine though don’t it. People will pay for bubbles, they can let out a good-humoured grumble but mostly they just slip that little card into the machine. And poke away four numbers that deliver them to their livelihood. Slip it in. So easy, in-between the legs of greed. Greedy legs. Give them a little jolly, deposit your sample, then withdraw, swig it down and leave. Bubbles, shit what would we do without them? We need those Bubbles, imagine this world – a world so big and full of people – what would happen if we took away all their Bubbles, no more cappuccinos, no more macchiatos, no more fucking babyccino for lil’ Billy, hardly able to stand but still appreciating those lovely Bubbles.
There’d be an uprising.
Fuck, what those poor bastards in London wouldn’t pay for some bubbles right now. Just some oxygen, some clean air, all those bombs, all that smoke that fills up the nostrils, seeps into their tents outside number ten. And they shuffle deeper into their sleeping bags but they still can’t escape it, maybe they keep their air in there, maybe they put them on head first and try to escape the smoke.
Special reserves of Bubbles could be kept for those living beside the Squat-holes, for when the bombings start up again. The Albert’s bound to be hit soon. The London grandees couldn’t stand to see their favourite Saturday hot spot made into a localized ghetto, I reckon even Lord and Lady Smutwerth would be prepared to sling a homemade bomb over their shoulder and take one for the socialite team. The Miggs could have some Bubble reserves too of course, the ones that survived – but it couldn’t be as fresh, if the Miggs got some of our Cotswold air the native city people would riot, probably bomb the Albert just to make a point. The Miggs could have some regular bubbles of Sheffield air, some shit like that.
That’s not what I’m think about though is it. No I’m thinking about going back to the Taylor residence, our house – their house.
This coffee’s shit anyway.
