The bank of shining coffee machines hiss & steam as the morning's caffeine addicts line up with hollow eyed-expectation, anxiously barking their orders. Latte, extra shot..., black hold the cream, give me a bagel with cream cheese, cappuccino, green tea, espresso, espresso....gimme espresso, make that two. Busy baristas, hair quickly knotted in unruly twists offer service with a smile, pulling levers, slamming levers, tapping, measuring, pouring, frothing and foaming.

Great big cups, tiny espresso cups, long, slender latte glasses, round, comforting tea-pots speaking to me of the welcome of home. Gleaming glass shelves with rounded chromed edges, not a speck, not a finger-mark in sight. Efficient, standardised, franchised. Where am I Boston or Birmingham?

Rows of perfect confections, glistening and moist, meet my gaze. Biscotti and Brutto buono, ugly but good the label says― I’m not convinced, they look a little like my attempts at bakery, little pieces of broken dough, lumpy and irregular. There are flat, chocolate cantucci concealing huge chunks of deep brown chocolate and rows of little mushrooms shaped limoncello baba, deep golden and shiny I can smell that deep lemon aroma from here a transporting me back to Florence. Tempting, tantalising, calling my name.

A deep, leather sofa invites me to sit and wraps itself around me, demanding that I linger and in my indolence postpone all I must do. I could stay here all day, watching. I never get bored ― there's always a question to be asked and postulated upon―who, why, what, how? The procrastinator emerges, but I silence it; this is work and I am working, see my notebook is here. Heavy chairs scrape against smooth tile disrupting my inner voyeur; tables cleared, silverware and pots clatter as trays are hefted with size defying strength, floors are mopped and yellow cones shout Peligroso! Caution! Attention!