Monday 21 October 2002

I don't really *like* my life at present, which rather fucks up the old 'happy little entries! Ooh! Look at the quirky web girl!' type thing. I feel rather sad a lot of the time, even in the middle of happy things, like hugging a beautiful boy on a rainy Soho Sunday afternoon, sipping a gorgeous three-tiered latte.

Oh! It was a work of art, this latte. This I can talk about with genuine glee, this latte. It wasn't large, but hey, size isn't everything, so they say, and the 'curve of lurve' (thank you, Disco) is not a thing you wanna see on your latte glass; slender and rigid and straight as a die will do me there, thank you.

While I adore the lattes in the paper cups with the plastic lids that you suck your drink through (look, I'm always gonna be a sad little web girl, a dried-up oh-so-two-thousand faded internet yuppie slash corporate whore, and I've accepted that, and I think you should too) - there is so much to be said for the far slower experience of a latte in a clear glass, gently slanting up from the base.

The drink segues from tan to milky whiteness to foam, and, if you hold your glass to the light, you can always see a few grains of coffee swirling around at the bottom, ably demonstrating the laws of particle physics. Some sort of physics, anyway, primary school physics, about heavy stuff not floating, but hey, it gives me a special *wrongness* thrill to mention science in any way shape or form, so run with me on this, or better yet, email me with hott scientific details and a subscription to New Scientist. G'waan! If you loved me you would.

This glass was presented on a white plate with a white napkin folded under it, and the whole thing - drink, napkin, plate - was dusted with cocoa like a negative shape snowstorm on an ice-rink, and it was quite lovely.

You think of coffee as this decadent evil blackness that stains your veins and nibbles at your stomach lining, till it resembles the black lungs of the corpses at Bodywords, pulpish and malleable and frightening. You think of coffee as the evil best friend of the silky cigarette, willingly ingested in woeful close-your-eyes-to-terror bliss, left to run ramshackle red round your tender insides.

But if on a rainy Sunday afternoon you drink a three-tiered latte delicate as a white tulle skirt, balanced on a plate like a promise, speckled with cocoa, shot through with coffee grains - well, it could almost make you believe in love.

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