Lurking exquisitely with his nose submerged in frothy cappuccino, Waffles Malone, or Bobby to his mother, loafed in a worn-out, chestnut leather armchair. Once again, he had found himself a delicious question to deliberate over; does he carefully spoon the froth from the top of his cup and saucer porcelain pair, or would it be easier just to down the entire problem in one go, end discussion? This, he decided, could take up much of his remaining afternoon and he was willing to sacrifice it for the good of his sanity.

Pretending to be watching the black cabs and Volvos zoom across his glass coated horizon, he gave a twenty something girl’s buttocks the eye and glanced across the broad sheet newspaper placed seductively in front of him. The words washed over him in a spray of headlines and semicolons. The best thing was that they were all his headlines, and all his semicolons. He never thought he’d make the front page, but shortly after he had become a journalist he made the startling discovery that it was actually mentioned in the job description.

This place seemed as though it had tried (and failed) to have an air of grandeur about it, with its matching tea utensils and lights dimmed down low to hide the smoke stained, “Amazonian” green wall paper. Gold twisted around the area where the walls met the ceiling- which, suffice to say, was the same that could be said for the napkins (except in the place of ceilings and walls, there was only a pretty border to consider). Behind the bar, the blonde cocktail waitress with her tiny little dress prepared drinks with the names of “Screaming Orgasm” and “Gorilla Fart”, in between re-applying her (red as the very devil’s backside) lipstick and stealing tiny paper umbrellas from the tray under the bar to decorate her living room. Frank Sinatra played softly in the background from speaker vantagepoints dotted around the room.

…Way down among Brazilians, coffee beans grow by the billions, so they've got to find those extra cups to fill, they've got an awful lot of coffee in Brazil…

Malone’s car, a peeling, orange 1970’s Fiat 128, sat sprawled half way up the pavement beyond the café/bar’s windows. Nicknamed “Mr Tim” in Malone’s earlier years, the car had, to that day, remained a devout follower of still remaining functional.

And so, Malone sat there at the circular table for two, wondering if the price of a ham and cheese sandwich for his lunch truly was day light robbery in his day and age. The clock soon read two thirty, and the small television above the bar flicked over to Countdown to keep the more intelligent of the customers happy. Carol Vorderman appeared on the screen soon after; the room breathed a collective sigh of relief.

“Do you want anything to eat, sir?” asked, sadly, a male waiter with a pen in the pocket of his neat black waistcoat.

“No, thank you” replied Malone without looking up from his newspaper.

…The politician's daughter Was accused of drinkin' water And was fined a great big fifty dollar bill They've got an awful lot of coffee in Brazil…

The waiter turned his back on the journalist and rolled his eyes at the cocktail girl while he returned his notepad to the belt around his waist, which held his heavily starched shirt in place. The cocktail girl returned the look, but soon had her hands in the tray containing the cocktail sticks for her college’s modern arts exhibition.

“Vowel, Vowel, Consonant…” said Countdown.

Malone’s mobile phone, a Nokia 3330, began to hum; he picked it out of his coat pocket and spoke into the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me.” Came the reply.

“Roxanne?”

“No, it’s Kate” Malone cringed into his shirt collar and lowered his mug to give the phone his undivided attention.

“Just want to know when you’ll be home so I can get out to Tesco 'cause we’re out of milk. Molly doesn’t like to be by herself for too long.”

“She’s just a dumb cat, she can be alone for five minutes.”

“Whatever, I’m only caring for the mental welfare of your pet.”

“You care too much-“

“-And you don’t care enough! Look, I want you back by four. Bye.”

The phone went blank.

Shrugging, Malone picked up the mug and hastily drained the last few dregs from it. He caught the eye of the waitress wearing the fishnet stockings and asked for the bill, which he received and paid in full shortly after. Sitting in his worn-out armchair, he finally decided that he would not like a ham and cheese sandwich after all. Around him the bustle and consistent hurry of the room continued, despite his reaching his decision. Grasping his hat in one hand, Malone swept the trench coat he bought from Marks and Spencer last year from the back of his chair with the other and somehow balanced his briefcase on the top of his working day soup. Making a break for the door, he hoped beyond hope that he could get away without tipping- and by God, he was going to make it!

…Man, they got a gang of coffee in Brazil!