Friday morning retail hordes provide the bustling sight while I gaze below from a mezzanine in situ cafe. The first floor coffee house whose title rhymes with Hosta a frequent penning post for GJ Strachan. An outpost where cognitive inspiration joins caffeination leading to a brew of wonderful epiphanies, mediocre notions and a fair share of brain farts.
Incidentally, why I’ve chosen to woefully mask the word Costa by instead proffering I’m sitting in a refreshment outlet which rhymes with Hosta is anybody’s guess. All I can think is I added this tepid cryptic reference as a consequence of wanting you (my beloved reader) to work for your literary supper.
Anyhow, you’ll be pleased to hear, I’ve resolved not to undertake that writing approach henceforth. Consequently, any utterance of the White Rose Shopping Centre won’t be replaced by a retail outlet rhyming with, for instance, the S***e Crows Drop-In Mentor.
Additionally, I also promise not to posit I’m consuming a product which rhymes with Bamericano toffee. Unless, of course, I am eating a Bamericano toffee….. If such confectionery exists and is indeed sold by this first floor coffee house whose title rhymes with Hosta……. That being said, both scenarios are fairly unlikely I’d suggest.
So there you have it, my prevailing existential landscape is I’m sitting in Costa at the White Rose Shopping Centre drinking an Americano coffee. Even though it’s technically true, please remove from your consciousness my earlier suggestion I’m perched within a first floor coffee house whose title rhymes with Hosta in a retail outlet rhyming with S***e Crows Drop-In Mentor, consuming a product which sounds like Bamericano toffee.
Phew….. I hope that’s clear that confusion up!
Pondering the above further, as is my want, I suppose at least there’s a thing called a hosta; I could never envisage a world in which a S***e Crows Drop-In Mentor would be a thing. Although not researched in great detail by yours truly (and by that I mean not at all), I suspect a role as mentor for s***e crows wouldn’t ever hit the ‘Situations Vacant’ board at the local Job Centre.
Even the most eccentric vet or ornithologist wouldn’t embark on a career path which’d see them indulge in corvidae emotional support programs. Even if they were moved to embark on such an absurd odyssey, the terms of reference for the role would be a nightmare to create.
After all, how do you differentiate if a crow is s***e?….. Surely judgements whether a corvidae could receive counselling would be overly subjective. Creating a ‘Is This Crow S***e?’ o-meter would be an absolute nightmare. Gauging where on the spectrum it laid in its ineptness, from the polar opposites of ‘utterly s***e’ to ‘non-detritus’, is riddled with jeopardy when ensuring the bird receives the appropriate treatment.
Additionally, even if the staff could be found and the gauge of a crow’s s***ness could be measured, the black winged critters cannot read or communicate with humans, rendering this project immediately dead in the water…… Well, unless the veterinary degree course starts incorporating ‘Talking Crow’ within it’s syllabus.
Anyway, I need to bring this nonsense to a close. Before you go, thanks for staying with this absurd literary riff. Also, I promise faithfully, as I’ve just spent two-three hundred words rabbiting on about counselling s***e crows, I’ll never again venture this avenue of ridiculous rhymes which instigated this whole sorry story.