001 Standing at the coffee machine at work, in the glare of its blue light I look to the options, wishing that their orderly type face was comic sans. All options lead to one; stale, bitter and pre-ground. 

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002 Café Schwarz.

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003 And with a press the machine bursts into a hum, out plops a thick substance followed by too much water.

I think of ...... (and you), in service stations across Britain frustrated asking for less water or a smaller cup much to the agitation of the barrista in a maroon-blood-crust Costa uniform tipping away its contents.

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004 British service stations, have something in common with Berlin call centres; MDF, chrome, transient spaces that we’re all passing through and drinking shit coffee in.