Hymn: Metro

It was an intriguingly named establishment, curiously incongruous for this good solid northern town - the Met Café. I couldn’t see inside because of the steamed up windows but it promised a lively cosmopolitan atmosphere full of sparkling conversation from out-of-work actors and other arty-farty folk with too much time on their hands. It lied. I wasn’t really surprised: it’s proximity to the ‘bus station was a bit of a giveaway. The place was full of chatter though. Right up to the point when I put my foot through the door. Then silence. Thirty-or-so old ladies turned in unison and reached for their handbags - not for security but as a weapon - for a moment I thought there’d be a lynching. Every one of them in their Shopping uniform of bluish-grey hair, lavender-coloured coats and those peculiar plastic tartan bags. Women who can only walk with a stick normally but carry a hundred weight of potatoes and three hundred toilet rolls in carrier bags without batting an eyelid. They relaxed when they saw the fear in my eyes and returned to complaining about Young People and reminiscing about The War. Two truants, trapped by the arrival of the 378 from Wilmslow, sat petrified in the corner, not daring to move for fear of drawing attention to themselves.

In spite of the fuming coffee-making machine, it didn’t feel especially metropolitan. The staff did try though.

‘Yes?’ asked the bored girl with a stud in her nose.
“A cup of tea and a nice piece of carrot cake, please”
‘Is that a tall or grand Cappuccino?’
“Erm, just tea, please”
‘Oh, really?’ she said in a tone that suggested I’d just spoilt her chances of winning Coffee Salesperson of the Week with its celebrity trappings. ‘Pfff. Do you want Tall or Grand?’
“What does that mean?”
‘Eh?’ The hairs on my neck started to bristle with foreboding.
“What does Tall and Grand mean?”
‘Eh?’ she said as if I’d asked her directions to Matmata.
“Tall or Grand. What size are they?”
‘What?’
“Tall and Grand.”
‘Eh? What? Tall and Grand? Big and small.’ I began to suspect I wasn’t making a friend here.
‘Which is which?’
‘Eh?’ out loud, and inwardly ‘Fucking twat.’ She started to reach for the cake slice.
“Can I just have a small cup of tea, please.”
‘Right.’ she seethed with more loathing than I’ve experienced since the my brief time with the Order of the Holy Sisters. ‘And a chocolate muffin.’ she hissed, sounding disturbingly full of phlegm.

As I looked for a seat, the Grannies formed an impenetrable barricade of shopping trolleys and I saw the last hope of escape extinguished from the eyes of the two trapped truants. I huddled over my tepid grey liquid and soggy bun at a table the size of an upturned wastepaper bin by the open door until the Wrinkled Hordes left en mass to catch the 309 to Cheadle. Each one of them coshed me with a large bag of potatoes as they went.