Short Story: Watching rain



The dew fell that morning of September - Sunday. The dampness and street air in Oxford Street was growing increasingly wet as commuters tried to run, holding newspapers and ducking - failing to avoid the showers - with very little shelter.


The season was back - London weather came with a force - it was clear this was not going to let-up. It was rain and vengeance. It must have been no different than heavy rainfall in the Amazon or any other hot country. It certainly felt like it - and I wasn't enjoying it.


London's vengeance of rain came crashing down on everyone as they tried their Olympic-best to avoid another down pour. I stood beneath my battered old black umbrella, looking up towards the heavens, hoping for the gods to ease-up. NO LUCK. I was counting the minutes as I had a meeting and growing increasingly annoyed. If I didn't get there I'd miss out on a major opportunity to write for a leading newspaper. I knew the odds were against me. I worked hard to get this interview. If I walk in looking like a drenched rat I might as well rule out any hope of becoming a writer with credibility in the future. Decisions, decisions - this is not my finest hour. 


I could hear voices from every continent as the doors opened behind me. People, frantically trying to get in - excusing one another as others left. The smell of fresh coffee and barister machines on full power, crunching and grinding the beans - I knew I might as well get a coffee. I might be standing outside here for a while, looking for an exit through the walls of rain.


The clock on the wall tormented me. Its every movement causing me to grow ever more weary. I knew I was going to be late - for god’s sake - I just wished the tormenting clock would just stop. The time is 10.24am Greenwich Mean Time - my meeting is at 10.30am - as it dawned on me and reality was kicking in I heard a faint voice.


'Sir, sir. What would you like? the fresh faced young student asked.


'I'd like a black filter coffee, thank you.' The barister quickly got to work preparing a queue of cups, all with codes marked. I never cared for all the varied options. I just needed something to calm me. I watched the team of four baristers working round the clock, taking orders, making drinks and collecting the remains of before from every table. I'd look and see every cup delivered to the owner, complete with a smile - sometimes robotic, but hey, its customer service - as Sarah brings my cup.


I sat down on a stool, only to find my phone had been ringing with 3 messages. I looked; my meeting was rescheduled for the next day. 


I needed a coffee that morning.



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Ryan Allen
TV & Media Projects 
Ian Taylor
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Editor In Chief
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