Part Two

The coffee shop is a great place for a gorgeous specimen of manhood, such as myself, to collect lovely ladies. I can sit in a comfortable leatherette armchair next to the faux fireplace, slipping on my double decaf latte macchiato with skim milk and scope the lady folk as they wander past. How could a lady not be attracted to such a sophisticated male as myself? I can spy on them as they wander down the street and give them my most endearing smile, although that one probably needs some work as it usually ends with the object of my affections walking swiftly away or throwing up in the nearest rubbish receptacle. Perhaps my smile is just so overpowering that the average lady cannot handle it. I think I will muse on that further.

In summer you can sit outside and get up close and personal. Although sitting outside means you also need to get up close and personal with the smokers who, along with literally being a dying breed, are more than happy to ensure that your clothing ends up smelling like a Friday night at the local pub. But if you can manage to overlook such small inconveniences, such as the potential for lung cancer and the fact that you smell like last weeks ashtray, it is a perfectly pleasant place to while away a few hours.

So I while away my evening hours chatting with the girls behind the counter and spying on the local talent. I have an especially close connection with Anna who never fails to tell me when she will be on shift next. I think she has some minor problem with her memory though because she always seems to be working different days to the ones that she tells me. Poor child. It must be difficult when you are literally overwhelmed by a personality such as mine. This evening she is being overworked by her terrible boss. This is the third time in the last 30 minutes that she's had to go off and clean the toilets. I am sure that these are the cleanest toilets in town, without a doubt. Such dedication to ones job must be applauded, and I will do just that when she gets back. I will give her a standing ovation. The customers in this coffee shop should know exactly what sort of lengths the staff here are willing to go to to ensure the hygiene of the premises!

Across the tables from me I spy a leggy brunette. And when I say leggy, I mean leggy. The woman is practically two meters tall! Not that will be a challenge for me. I will draw myself up to my full one meter fifty centimeters and pile on the charm. There is no way that a lady like that should be forced to send her evenings with her friends when my stellar personality is available. My witty repartee will have her splitting her sides with laughter and she will hang on my every word. In a way I feel sorry for her. She has no idea of what is about to hit her.

As I prepare my plan of attack, or rather choose one from the hundreds instantly at my disposal, I gaze once more in her direction. The amber light from the 80's disco lamps has bathed her in a jaundice glow, considering what is about to happen to her that may be an appropriate color for the moment. Her hair falls from her head and down past her face and over her shoulders, framing her perfectly, the moment is almost too perfect. I breath a deep sigh which manages to escape my body with a sound like a rutting adult brown beer, perhaps not the most appropriate sound for the moment. She looks across at me with a wistful smile, or perhaps a look of disgust, it's difficult to tell in this light. Her friend whispers something in her ear and they both laugh. I am sure they are wondering which one of them will be the lucky one to strike gold with me. Her friend can forget it though, her only taste is in her mouth. That french fella Peter Cardigan wouldn't bury a dead cat in that dress. It may say Gucci on the label but it should just read Gauche!

I wonder what our children will be like? Will they be long and leggy like my wife to be or will they be more stout in stature like myself. Just because you're short doesn't mean you're not worthy. Napoleon was vertically challenged and he handed the English their arses on more than one occasion. I'm not sure that Napoleon was sporting a second stomach in quite the same way as myself, but then he spent his entire life with his hand in his jacket so perhaps he was holding it in on purpose. I will have to research that fact a little more. It's something that I pride myself in, research. There is nothing that a lady likes better than a well researched member of the opposite sex. I have been known to talk for a full 30 minutes uninterrupted on the migratory habits of the Godwit. Well I was probably uninterrupted because everyone was trying to get their drinks from the bar 5 minutes after I started, but I can't let a small thing like that get in the way of my moment in the spotlight.

I notice that the leggy goddess has just finished her drink so this is the perfect time to enact plan number three hundred and forty five. This calls for a highly specialized look and an offer of a glass of Spirulina and Prune juice. It's a practically infallible plan. Well I say practically because the past few, actually six, times I've used it the results have been less than stunning. But I put it down to the weather, lighting, time of the day, month, year. In fact there are any number of factors that can cause this plan to go ever so slightly astray. I'm happy with the basic premise though. The Spirulina and Prune juice combination just needs to be paired together with the right combination of other elements to have the desired effect.

As I stroll over the leggy goddess and her friend are deep in conversation. No matter, they will be stunned into silence with my presence. So I wait, as still as the morning air on a cold winters day. As diligient as one of those blokes standing outside that Queen lady's house in London (saw that on the TV once but more about that later). I clear my throat ever so gently and manage to hawk up a sizable piece of last nights dinner. Ok not the smoothest move in the world but the odds are still well in my favor. I'm just about to catch the eye of my leggy goddess and seal the deal when dead cat dress lady turns around and snarls at me "Two Chi Latte's and make sure they're hot this time!".

Well the clock stops and it's probably just as well for the feline shroud wearer. I mean is this woman blind as well as having horrible taste. Actually that could well explain it because if she wasn't blind I would happily take a serving tray and insert it sideways down her throat. Not that anything like that would shut the bitch up. Just take one look at those arms. She could rip the legs off a crocodile without breaking a sweat. It's at this point in the proceedings that I realize that moggy murderer is getting out of her chair and still mouthing off in my direction. Time to make a strategic retreat from my leggy destiny and get to the front door before I'm drawing disability payments.

I would have made it out the door by myself, there was no need for the pussy punisher to launch a drop goal effort from 20 meters out! Of course with dumb luck she landed her toe square in the rectal zone and the next thing I know I'm flying across the room and collide with the waitress bringing in the leftover iced coffees and rather full ashtrays. If the woman was playing ten pin bowling I'm sure she'd have called it a strike. The waitress managed to jump out of the way but lost control of the tray in the process. I passed under just as the full load of iced coffee and cigarette butts landed on my persona, which was rapidly becoming non grata, and I ended up on my hands and knees on the sidewalk covered in warm milk and left over fag ends. Meanwhile Babe Ruthless is standing in the doorway screaming something about pervert. What is wrong with these women?

As I drag my sore and sorry arse back home I start to wonder if I should have maybe listened to that little voice in my head that was telling me it might be a good time to do up the zipper on my trousers ...