Rise of the Yuppie Muppy...uh...Mummy

The lady standing infront of me widened her eyes in shock. She rearranged her jaw so that the bottom half that had dropped open and hung slack in shock at my pronouncement was now returned to it's rightful place, though now screwed back in so tightly that her lips were pursing together and slowly pushing their way backwards and into her face, disappearing bit by bit.

A moment passed and then, gasping for air, she managed to expel these words towards me 'Tomorrow...and the next day?'
'Yes Madam' I responded.
'Both days?'
I looked her straight in the face. Just so there was no confusion. 'Yes Madam'.

I followed this up by attempting a smile. She looked startled and, simultaneously trying to tighten her faux fur coat around her, staggered backwards a step on her sensible day heels. Putting a hand out to steady herself on the counter behind her she called to her wayward husband who was gazing hopefully at the various confectionaries dotted around the shop.

'Quentin', she called urgently. 'QUENTIN!' He turned to look at her. She delivered the revelation with disquietingly slow and measured tones. 'Quentin. They are not open for either Christmas Day or Boxing Day. We need to purchase enough bread now to tide us over for the next two days.'

Quentin...in his defence...did not explode in rage or panic unduly. He simply nodded almost imperceptibly, confirmed this was both the correct and only possible action to take and put forward his suggestions for some healthy and other slightly more frivolous loaves to see them through the Christmas period.

Welcome to the new London. Yuppie London. Thanks to the phenomenon known as 'the skyrocketing of the house prices', previously naturally downmarket parts of London, packed to the hilt with cheerful criminals, penniless pensioners and bountiful benefit scroungers, all happily meeting up for cuppas at the local greasy spoon, speaking a variety of confusing dialects and slang, are now chic suburbs displaying fancy houses -old exteriors with sleek interiors-, boutique stores and...da dah daaaaaah...the YUPPIES.

Yup...London's mini-aristocrats, the television executives, the internet millionaires...they're all here. All packed into a variety of expensive coffee shops cum bakeries. Which is where you join us now. They say they're business owners, entrepreneurs, these women, but they seem to have a suspiciously unnatural amount of time to meet their girlfriends for lattes. Or what's it nowadays...flat whites? As long as it's skinny or soy it doesn't really matter. Or...herbal teas...they're coming back into fashion now herbal teas are. Slimming dont you know.

And there are always children. Any time of the day. The small ones are there mid-morning, and then after 3pm the little devils...the overtired, sugared up ones roll in from the private school round the corner. They're very loud. And their parents don't seem to see how letting them run around the feet of waiters carrying trays of hot tea and coffee could be a problem. Really?

You've probably guessed it by now. Yes...I did briefly join the long long list of actresses and other creatives who have waited tables for a living. But I really hit the jackpot. I worked in a coffee shop/cafe/bakery whose wonderful quality food and drink, and exorbitant prices, made it very attractive to London's filthy rich young couples and families. I soon tired of the free food, the endless coffees, the constant retraining and staff changeovers. But I never got bored of waiting to hear what any one of our esteemed customers might say next. I could write a blog a day and still not share with you some of the weirdest, most irritating or downright rude people I dealt with on a daily basis.

What could I leave you with today? The customer who came in on a regular basis to tell us that we were overpriced before purchasing a bag full of food and drink to take home? The man who waited until 15 minutes before closing...hovering like some vile wasp to watch us excitedly start closing the coffee machine early...before swooping in and demanding we serve him. Or the woman who told her child in loud, clear tones not to 'behave like you're at Poundland'.

In case you're wondering. Mr and Mrs Quentin chose a wholemeal, a country white and a fruit bread for the festive season. The day after Boxing Day, promptly at 8:30 am -after dropping the kids at holiday camp- Mrs. Quentin showed up, looking terribly put out and malnourished, and purchased another loaf with which she hurried home muttering all the time about the fetid bread wrapping the parma ham and gruyere cheese in the tiny Quentin's holiday camp lunchbox sandwiches.