It’s your coffee… it’s got your name on it

There’s an old joke about the war, about two families hiding-out in a bomb shelter. One of the men stands proudly, explaining to his wife,  ‘it’ll all be okay. There’s an old saying: The bomb’ll only get you if it’s got your name on it’. Whilst the other couple, Mr and Mrs Doodlebug, start quivering in the corner.

Today I braved the crowds of the big smoke (quiet literally as everyone in Cardiff today seemed to be a chain-smoker with their own personal Iron Lung at home to help them keep puffing), and started my Christmas shopping. But, to be honest, I’m a man. And that means that my attention-span for shopping lasted approximately 22 1/2 minutes before I gave up and went for coffee.

So I’m in Tarbucks Scoffee in a queue of similarly-fatigued ADD shoppers (the one with the little green logo of the L’oreal mascot who’s been dragged through a hedge backwards whilst being run over by a lawnmower). And as well as mocking the American civil war with their slogan ‘The Red Cups are coming!’, they’d come up with an ingenious idea to speed up the queue: put everybody’s name on their cup. Ingenious if you have a common name maybe, but there’s always someone like me to put a spanner in the latte equivalent of Who’s Who.

So I ask for my grande vanilla latte, and was asked for my name. ‘Joey?’ repeats the Barrista. ‘No, Dury’ I reply. ‘Joy?’ she says with greater confidence.

At this point I’m desperately trying not to point out that she’d be able to hear me if they weren’t playing some indie hip Earth Mother type singing Jingle Bells in a throaty drawl at full volume throughout the shop.

‘Ummm…’, I say annoying myself that I’m apologetically repeating my name for a third time, ‘…Dury?’.

She’s clearly had enough of this game. I note she has a name tag on so we all know her name. She turns around and starts writing my name on the cup out of my view without saying a word this time, adamant that she’s got it this time. And, should she be wrong, clearly thinks I should go straight away to Deed Poll and change my name to something more easily understood.

Luckily at this point I could take my place at the other end of the counter and recognise the man who was before me, so that I might have some chance of being reunited with my drink.

‘Grande Cap for Tom’, the other lady says with authority.’
‘It’s Tony’, the man in front of me replies.
‘No, this one’s for Tom’, she says perkily.
We all look at the predominantly female queue.
‘No’, he continues, ‘it’s my drink, and I’m Tony’.

At this point the drinks-master technician does an overly-theatrical squint at the writing on the cup, and then hands it over to Tony with a smile weaker than Tarbuck’s Daily Cup.

And then it’s time for my drink. And I’m nervous with anticipation. I’m English – If I was run over by a bus I’d be more worried about causing a scene than any injury to myself.

She looks at the cup. She pauses. She thinks. She says ‘Grande Vanilla Latte?’.

Excellent. A much better system all round I can’t help thinking.

But then I realise I’ve got to walk around Cardiff City Centre holding my Red Cup of Latte with the word ‘Jrurey’ written on the front in big marker pen kiddy-writing…