Coffee

Weather really can be a bitch, and today was no exception. I could hear the rain falling heavily upon the ceiling of the station, pounding hard, drilling into my head with every second that ticked past. I was playing out what a hermit might seem like when forced back into society, until I realised that that was exactly the same way my feelings were going.

Various platforms lined the walls opposite me, with a large screen looming above. The screen held all of the train times - including mine, the 17.58 train to Leeds. The time was 5pm. I needed to preoccupy myself, as I had a long while to wait, and time was certainly not going quickly. A woman to my left was running a hand through her hair, until she hurriedly rushed off to platform 7. A man in front of me set his bag down on the floor, and walked through to the toilets.

I hadn't had a drink since midday, just after I had woken up (I had had a late night the night before). A coffee shop some way behind me was wafting the scent of croissant and coffee across the platform. I was getting tempted. A second or two passed. I picked up my bag. Someone sitting next to the toilet-bag man's bag coughed. A train rumbled into platform two; a storm of people rushed out. I started walking slowly towards the coffee shop, trying to waste time – counting the seconds as they passed. I got caught in the crowd of people from the platform two train, and was mercilessly sucked away from the coffee shop. I crumpled in despair, until I built up the courage to bravely battle my way back to the drinking place. When I did, it felt good. A minute passed.

I reached the coffee shop, but a long queue had formed. I made my way to the back of the queue, and stood with my feet planted to the floor, standing my ground. The woman in front of me had no taste when it came to clothes. She was wearing a shocking pink jacket, and bright blue denim trousers. Her hair was magenta, and she had several piercings in her ears. I couldn't see what she looked like from the front, but I'm guessing it was also suitably awful. I took a step forward, as someone walked away from the counter with a chocolate-coated flapjack and a bottle of Pepsi Max. There were five people in front of me. Toilet-bag man still hadn't arrived back: I suppose there's a good reason he hurried off to the toilet so quickly… he was obviously desperate.

Five minutes later, and it was 5.08 P.M The queue had shortened in length, now consisting of no-taste lady, and a plump, very dressed-up man – whose belly seemed keen to leap out of the immaculate white shirt covering it. No-taste lady was scratching her ear lobe, as if she'd only just realised that being covered in piercings wasn't particularly good for her. Plump man was ordering a (large) Mocha, but the person behind the counter seemed unable to comprehend that he would dare order such a thing. Arguments ensued, and the man walked away with a small latte. No-taste lady bought a Chelsea bun, and walked over to where I had been standing only minutes before, behind toilet-bag man's bag.

Finally, it was my turn to negotiate with the lady behind the counter. I steeled myself, took a deep breath, and began to talk.

"A regular Cappucino, please."

Amazingly, she understood, nodded, and walked off to the coffee machine. The filter was empty, so she filled it. She fetched a red cup and placed it below the filter. She brewed the coffee and added what looked like hot frothed milk from a well-used metal jug. This lady was obviously a veteran at coffee making, so when she added the lid to the polystyrene cup and bought it to the counter, I was entirely happy with the service. She asked me if I wanted anything else – I replied 'no' – and then for the required £1.95. I gave it to her with all of the small change I could find in my wallet.

I reached for the coffee, and picked it up. It was surprisingly hot around the edges, so I was forced to carry it with my thumb on the lid and the rest of my hand holding the bottom of the cup.

By this time, it was around 5.15 P.M. Only another 43 minutes to go. I walked over to the large screen again, the one with all of the train times on it. I was forced to stand quite a way away, a large crowd had gathered underneath it. I could see No-taste lady standing in the middle of everyone. There was a gap in the crowd directly in front of her – I guessed that Toilet-bag man still hadn't got back. He must be struggling. It was quite amazing that nobody had stolen his bag, but I suppose that might be a bit too obvious given the huge crowd surrounding it.

I took a sip of my coffee, and immediately spat it back out. For a second, my mouth had felt like it had suffered from a miniature explosion. The coffee was way too hot. I searched for a water-fountain, some free drinkable water, anything that could help relieve the pain running around inside my mouth. Eventually, I came to my senses and thought: The toilets! I rushed over to the sign leading to them. I hurried down a long, winding corridor with a staircase in between. Where were they?

Eventually, I found them. A woman was sitting outside a turnstile, with the toilets just inches behind her. She asked me for twenty pence – I fumbled in my pocket for my wallet, but when I found it and looked inside, it was empty. I had spent all of my coins on the coffee!

After a lot of searching, I found some money stuffed into a corner of my wallet that I didn't even know existed. A five pound note. I pulled it out and shoved it into the woman's eager hands. I was desperate. So much so that I almost told her to keep the change – though, thankfully, I managed to hold onto a small part of my senses, and didn't quite give her the chance to steal the entire of my remaining cash. The lady took a long time finding the appropriate change, refusing to give me coins above the value of 20p. When she had finally dished out the appropriate amount of money, I scrambled past her, through the turnstile, and into the inviting dirt and cheap lights of the men's toilets.

They were empty. I ran to the taps, and gulped water down viciously, the experience almost as soothing as walking into an air conditioned room after being stuck in 40 degree weather. My tongue felt numb as I exited the toilets, hurried along the winding path back to the bulk of the station, and resumed my position at the back of the crowd. I stood there for five minutes, before daring to try my coffee again. I hoped it had cooled down in the time I had patiently waited.

I blew through the lid profusely, hoping that would help cool it down even more. I took a small, cautious sip and the liquid passed through my mouth with a slight tingling, until I swallowed it with a gulp. I couldn't even taste it. I took another sip, a larger amount this time. Again, all I felt with a slight tingling until the liquid trickled down my throat.

I swore under my breath as I realised why I couldn't taste the coffee - I had burnt my tongue. I decided on a course of action: take the coffee back to the counter and ask for my money back. I've never been one for wasting things, certainly not money, so this really seemed like the only thing to do. Sure, I was wasting the coffee, but it would hardly be advantageous to me if I drank it and didn't even appreciate it.

I marched over to the coffee shop with the prowess of a lion. I pushed past everyone in the queue; my path followed by dozens of insults. But I didn't care. I wanted a refund, and no fat man or psychedelic woman could take that away from me. I slammed the coffee down on the counter. The lady behind it looked both shocked and horrified. Well, I like to think she did.

"I want a refund!", I said angrily, "Your coffee burnt my tongue!".

She looked bemused.

"I am very sorry", she said with a strong, slightly confused accent, "but I am not very good speak English".

Well… I didn't know what the hell to do. The rage started building up inside of me. I knew that any second now, I would explode.

I turned around and started to storm away from the counter when I glanced up at the screen with all of the train times and saw a big, red "DELAYED" next to the listing for the 17.58 train to Leeds. My heart fell.

I stood still for a few seconds, then glanced at my watch. It was 5.23 P.M. What was I going to do?

I didn't have to think for much longer. My thoughts were interrupted by a searing heat, a huge boom, and a giant fireball of an explosion. An explosion that had come from toilet-bag man's bag.

I heard a loud crack as the roof started to collapse. My legs escaped me, and I landed heavily on the floor. My head banged hard against it, and feet trampled my body – people trying desperately to escape the spreading heat. I was sure my head was on fire.

I closed my eyes to the chaos around me – the screams were deafening my ears, and the trauma surrounding the whole event was something completely new to me. It was all rather unreal. It hadn't sunk in yet. I had just experienced the simultaneous death of hundreds of people, yet – somehow – I was still annoyed about the injustice of burning my tongue on a regular cup of coffee.