The unseasonably but mercifully clement weather is probably over. Here begins the endless Scorch.
In the morning I went to the local bakery to get a coffee. Right after me in the queue there was a tall foreign woman (‘foreign’ as in ‘from north of the Danube and east of the Oder-Neisse’). While the barista was making my coffee, the woman was approached by a short swarthy man working at the ovens (judging from his white uniform). He greeted the woman and leaned against the bar with the right hand, while putting the left one at his waist in a punter-like gesture. They chatted a bit, perhaps in incomprehensible English. Then he exclaimed that the woman’s coffee was on him. The woman protested in English “No, you cannot do that” and the barista protested in Outpostese that this cannot be done. The man told the barista that he would pay cash. The woman looked embarrassed. I could tell they had met before.
I took my coffee and walked to work. I realised I should have ordered an iced latte.
