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"Carrot cake please", I say, trying not to give away the faint guilty pleasure of anticipation. A day off today includes a walk along the river, ending in a Starbucks Selah. "After all", I reason, "carrots are healthy".
"Is that carrot and passion cake?", she retorted and I nodded. "Do you have any peppermint tea", I ask sheepishly. "Of course!", she says, making me feel less inappropriate in this temple to caffeine. "One or two bags?", she enquires. I am surprised by the question and then I feel that a little indulgence with peppermint can't be a bad thing so I plump for two.
I sit and eat, telling myself that this can't be as sinful as a Belgian chocolate brownie. Carrots are healthy. The little child on the adjacent table is downing a chocolate muffin and is told by Mummy, "You're very lucky, you've got chocolate", and I feel jealous. As I continue scribbling I wonder if I can actually write at all, and why on earth I am doing it. And then I feel a little bit of it. A small snack of passion wells up and I want to get inside everyone's bones. The old lady collecting her medium hot chocolate, the petite Japanese girl waiting quietly in the queue. The two businessmen discussing earnestly in the corner, and the blonde who continues dishing out cake and coffee, asking everybody the same question ad nauseam, "What size would you like?" Everything and nothing in common.
At the next table Mummy announces, "it's time to change your nappy", and I decide it's time to leave.