The predictability of doughnut shops
Sunday was muggy.
I took my vitamins and minerals and dragged my sorry ass out for a day of socialising. I came back home mentally paralysed by trite, predictable chit-chat and physically bloated with hot chocolate and doughnuts.
Dougnuts. I’ve tried to quit.
I was nearing Leicester square when I felt a sudden wave of anxiety coming, the type that wants me to sit down in a corner and hug my knees. Now I know that a good antidote is usually food, preferably deep fried and covered in sugar, so I dove into The FuckingRude DoughnutShop. It’s one of my favourite places ever; the second you walk in, you feel under attack. I believe the guys who work there have a competition going: who’ll be the rudest to customers, and who’ll be the fastest at it.
‘whatcha want.’, one of them barks with an upward tilt of the chin.
‘Good morning to you too! Well, I don’t know yet. But give me ten seconds and I’ll decide’, I answer with a smile.
‘huh?’
‘Precisely. Cinnamon and apple, please.’
‘ninety nine p. I have no change.’
It always makes my day. So after that friendly exchange I sat in smoky cafés and drank sweet goo, and listened and nodded and asked questions.

I’m so tired, internet people. Those serial killer dreams are really taking it out of me. Perhaps I should stop reading those detective novels and go back to fairy tales. I have more navel-gazing anecdotes in store, people of the Republic of blogland, but I’m dramatically underslept so I’m going to keep those simmering on the back burner for now. Good night.