Soooooo…. Turns out, I’m in Newcastle and my moron friend didn’t even wake up. So now I have an hour and a half to kill.

Scavenging what I have left in my already empty wallet; mostly a combination of 20p’s and copper, – I knew already that whatever cashier I would give this to would give me some major death glares – I was just about able to afford a tea.

So I’m sat in a Starbucks, on Neville street, writing, with a tea. Christ I look like such a pleb. So now I’m just looking around all the different people in the Coffee shop, cause I’m bored and weird.

The Teen – She’s a student I’m assuming, unless some unknown underground clothing store have rainbow staff lanyards. She’s academic but with a renegade rocker side, judging by her Guns N’ Roses T-Shirt. She’s using a pretty new MacBook, probs 2017 model, I’m instantly jealous.

The Barista –  Its obvious that there will almost always be a hot barista at a Starbucks, you hoped to get served by them but it ends up being the most miserable person who’s voice only has one pitch – Dead Inside. He’s about 5”10 with blonde hair and really nice piercings. She’s about 5” 8 with really nice purple hair and black & White vans… You Decide which was the Hot Barista.

The Vogue – As you walk across the floor toward your table, multitasking like a ninja (Checking out the hot barista, balancing hot tea in your hands and directing yourself towards your table) you may notice someone that looks like they’ve been plucked straight out of a fashion catalogue. Every single placement of anything on their body is just pure perfectionism, from their perfectly sculpted hair and contrasting snoot scarf, to their beautiful Celtic-esque boots, You want be them.

The New Yorker – He makes phone calls, loud phone calls.

Everyone hates him.

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