“Steve!” It was my surrogate mother. “Do you drink coffee?”
I do drink coffee–and assuming some sort of free coffee was in the offing, went to see what was happening. Standing in the doorway was my surrogate mother…and she was wielding a knife.
Now…I don’t know what a knife has to do with me liking coffee, but there was no mistaking what was in her right hand. It wasn’t a small one, either, but (to paraphrase Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels) a big, fuck-off shiny knife that looked like it could skin a crocodile. And so I stayed put, and wearily observed every twitch of her right hand. She was offering me a free tin of coffee–which I sort of wanted, but which I wasn’t willing to come upstairs to fetch. Instead, I told her I didn’t have a working coffee maker (not true) and ended the conversation as quickly as possible. HLP Paul asked the obvious question: “What’s that got to do with coffee?” To which there’s no answer, of course–but as is so often the case with these people, not knowing is half the fun.