Delicious

Nero.

It’s raining outside – delicious, insistent autumn rain, splooshing in pavement puddles and gurgling down broken drainpipes. Miserable day, people say, and it’s delicious.

Nero is empty and because it’s empty it feels cavernous. Chain coffee shops without bustle have the glamor taken away and they’re revealed to be what they obviously always are; identikit get-em-in-get-em-out fast food joints with coffee and cream, cheap furniture and scratched tables. My latte is OK; milk oversteamed, perfunctory heart.

I can’t afford to be here, not really, not if I”m sensible. I can’t afford overpriced coffee, or the sandwich I didn’t get but almost did. I can’t, really, afford to go to Manchester this evening but I will. I shouldn’t stay the night into Saturday and see friends, but I will. I should be ploughing all my meagre income into debt repayments, digging up as fast as I can. Living with the bare bones of life.

And I am digging up; digging nearly as fast as I can. But bare bones soon grow cold.

I needed to come into town to exchange some shirts and have a word with the bank and it’s raining, that delicious insistent autumn rain. I’ve lived down to the bare bones of life before and trust me bare bones soon grow cold. Bare bones is no lattes, no journeys, no weekends with friends.

So I can’t afford to be here, not really, not if I’m being sensible. But thankfully I can – just about – afford to not always be sensible.

It’s raining outside. I’ve an identikit coffee.

It’s delicious.

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