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"Nnnnuururgh!" I exclaimed exhausted and desperately on appearing in Adrian's.
"Jamaican Blue Mountain, and here's Mrs Al Paca with the Cinnamon Toast", said Marc plunging a huge cafetiere and pushing it over to me together with a pot of warm milk and a similarly warmed cup and saucer. I poured myself a cup of the life giving black fluid.
"Mmmugh," I said thankfully and eloquently .
"Christmas shopping?"
"nunngh," I replied, shivering in fear at the thought and experience of hundreds of baying crowds grabbing at anything and everything, bloodshot eyes and near deathlike shuffles – it was as if I'd got stuck in a favourite book of Dr Drib.
"Well, maybe you'll like tonight's movie."
"mmmng?" I attempted to ask, since as I looked around I could see no evidence of screen or project, or anything else.
"This is Adrian's" said Marc by way of explanation. I suppose that should have been enough to explain things to me, but it seemed about as helpful as punk rock is to a headache. I put this confusion down to my brain-addled state following on from the shopping. After all, since Adrian's does everything differently, why should showing a movie mean showing a movie?
And with that, the house lights dimmed and the curtains opened. Given that this is Adrian's, however, it meant that there weren't any house lights, no lights whatsoever dimmed and the curtains never moved. After Christmas shopping, my mind really didn't need this complexity.
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