milking it

I was brought up in a time before coffee shops.

Well, not entirely before coffee shops, but certainly before the global phenomenon of American chains with their skinny ventis, Americanos, and tall decaf drips.

There were tea shops in my childhood – both independents and the ubiquitous ABCs; and I have fond memories of Saturday afternoons spent in the Kardomah in Nottingham. But children were given nursery tea, while coffee was a drink for adults; even then, it was as likely to be Maxwell House as anything. (Our kitchen did have a bottle of Camp Coffee tucked away, but although I remember the intense smell of chicory of the inky brown liquid, I think it was only brought out to make coffee cakes, not to serve as a drink for guests.)
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travelling

When I was a teenager we had fairly regular bomb scares at school. I was too politically naïve to know if it was the IRA or the PLO who were intent on disrupting my education, but I do remember that we spent many happy hours out on the playing fields waiting while sniffer dogs and their handlers searched the building.

countdown on computer screen
We were always told to take our bags with us when we evacuated the building as it left fewer things to be searched. And I learned to be wary of bags and packages left unattended at airports, railway stations and shopping centres.
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coffee and countables

What is it with coffee shops and countability?

I’ve commented in the past on the Starbucks slogan “Less napkins. More plants. More planet.” *

Today, though, it’s Coffee #1 who have offended my grammatical – and poetical – sensibilites. Again, it’s napkins (or serviettes):

coffee #1 napkin
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