One day I’ll be like Erin, teasing the cup to the wand, twisting my wrist to swirl the microfoam, pouring clever rosettas and swanky swans, no longer the trainee on the till, scribbling ‘Anil’ or ‘Lee’ on the lids.
If they eye the cakes, if they can take their eyes off Erin, I’m supposed to say something like ‘the blondies are scrumptious’ or ‘anything else in here you fancy?’
One day a hipster prince will invite me to some artisan place he knows and I’ll say yes to a latte and yes to a flapjack or maybe a muffin because it’s only blondies that make me sick.
Chris Cottom has packed Christmas hampers in a Harrods basement, sold airtime for Radio Luxembourg, and served a twelve-year stretch as an insurance copywriter. He liked the writing job best.
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