Coffee shops are becoming impossible. I had been standing in the queue at Caffè Nero on Battersea Rise for nearly half an hour behind a man ordering a round of coffees that were so complex, so detailed and intricate, so different from each other, so bespoke and unique, that it would have been quicker to get served if I had been standing behind a man ordering a helping of weapons-grade plutonium and a custom-made Range Rover.
I had nipped in to buy a coffee and a croissant. Silly me, for wanting a coffee and a croissant.
The man in front of me was ordering something like, from memory: ‘One regular black Americano with one and a half shots; one regular decaff white Americano with one shot, skimmed milk; a grande caramel full fat latte with two shots and extra froth; a regular soya cappuccino with one shot and chocolate on top, a large cappuccino with one and a half shots, skimmed normal milk and no chocolate; a large soya latte with two shots, easy on the froth; a macchiato with two shots and extra foam; and a small decaff mocha, normal milk, half a shot, no chocolate, extra cream.
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