Coffee and Duncan

It was the volume that was as off-putting as anything else. A coffee shop should be a place of reflection, a gymnasium for mental progress and all-round enlightenment – not a pseudo crèche.

That said, not all the noise could be laid at the door of the 2ft cherubs flying about the place. Disused coffee beans and pressurised steam provided a discordant back-drop to the unfolding symphony. Throw in the odd cymbal crash of cups and saucers being dropped, and the music to Duncan’s hangover was complete.

Perhaps this was the reason why the Italians he knew were always so loud. They had to speak above the crash, bang and wallop of their favourite beverage being concocted. Italy was also the home of loud opera – enough said. That was one nation’s psychosis explained in a stellar leap of clarity; however he needed to direct his thoughts elsewhere.

The papers had gone from calling his case the hunt for the “Holst Murderer” to the “Mars Murders” – clearly alliteration being a more comfortable bedfellow for journalists and editors. In fairness, Duncan could understand where they were coming from – the path of least resistance in a dizzying world of sound-bites was always going to be good enough to keep the masses hooked. However, he realised that it would take more than a steady canter through life if he were to stop any more of these murders. Duncan could tell the pressure was getting to him; he was drinking more and while the short-term gains were euphoric and easy to reach, the long-term consequences were strained relations and a body ageing faster than it should. Friends and family had long since made allowances for his varying moods and behaviour, but his body was not so forgiving. If he got a second glance these days it was more likely because he had food stuck in his teeth, or perhaps his shoe laces were undone. But it certainly wasn’t to catch a “come hither” look that at one time would have pierced his alcoholic armour.

From out of nowhere a young boy with a toy light sabre nearly sent Duncan’s coffee into orbit. Duncan stopped the cup and its contents from being part of his next laundry basket, but at the expense of a solid whack across the knuckles.

“Nathan – what have I told you?! Never indoors!” Nathan’s mother remonstrated, but Nathan was far too impish to be worried about a telling off. Duncan’s hand visibly glowed; the pain brought him quickly back to the here and now. “I’m so sorry – he thinks he’s trying to save the universe” said Nathan’s mother. “A noble calling in one so young” replied Duncan – perking up slightly at the sight of the attractive thirty-something talking to him. “Can I get you another drink? I feel awful – your hand looks very sore”. Nathan’s mother seemed genuinely distressed at the damage her young Jedi had caused; and perhaps just a little interested in him too. ”That’s ok - I have to be going anyway, but perhaps another time”. A genuine if not well received smile accompanied Duncan’s decline as he stood up to leave. Last night’s vodka and yesterday’s sweat mingled and made Nathan’s mother corral her child back to her table with an “Ok then, if you are sure”. Duncan strode away, leaving the urban symphony behind him, pleased that a minor social engagement had gone without incident and the pledge of a free coffee at a future date. As he walked out, watching out for any other children in his path he caught sight of his right shoe – his shoe lace was skipping freely either side of his foot along the floor.