Day 311 - The Yuppie

AKA - Cello!  Is it Me You're Looking For?

Warming up for cello practice

Warming up for cello practice

We are running dangerously low on Nespresso capsules.  As I’m sure you can imagine, as a result, the mood at home is extraordinarily sombre.

“What are we going to do?” asks Zsuzsa, fighting back the tears.

I’m trying not to panic although this is obviously a very stressful time.  A brainwave hits me.

“Why don’t I buy some more tomorrow?  I can pop to the Nespresso shop on Andrássy Avenue after work?”

At this suggestion, I can visibly see hope returning to Zsuzsa’s face.  She doesn’t say it, but I know what she’s thinking.

“Bloody hero!  Bring me those capsules and I will ravish your body!”

It’s now tomorrow.  I've encountered a slight obstacle to my plans as I’d forgotten that I’d planned to meet a friend named Rupert at Brody Studios, the private members club that I’m a member of.  There’s a story telling evening on and we’d agreed to meet straight after work, leaving little time for coffee shopping.  But then I remember Zsuzsa’s haunted, Nespresso deprived face, and despite the tight schedule, I decide that I’ve enough time to squeeze in a trip to the Nespresso store before heading to Brody Studios.

I’m outside the Nespresso store when my phone buzzes.  It’s a message from Rupert.

“Where the devil are you?” it reads.

“Just picking up some Nespresso capsules.” I reply.

A few seconds later and I get a response.

“Bloody yuppie!”

I stare at my phone screen.  Yuppie!?  What’s so yuppie about Nespresso capsules?  They’re just tiny pods of coffee granule heaven!  That’s all!  Nothing more!  Yuppie!?  How dare he!  I haven’t been this outraged since the time that Pret a Manger ran out of pomegranate and hibiscus infused water!  I take a deep breath and enter the coffee store.

A few minutes later and it’s my turn at the counter.  A man named Tamás with a gold badge on his jacket that reads “Boutique Coffee Specialist” takes my caffeine filled order.  As he does so I’m staring at his badge, wondering why ‘boutique’?  Is the shop supposed to be ‘boutique’?  I look around, but the place is anything, but small.  Or maybe it’s Tamás that’s ‘boutique’?  Are they poking fun at this poor lamb's diminutive stature?  The cruel bastards!  

I’m now at Brody Studios, clutching my Nespresso bag.  Rupert glares at it.

“Bloody yuppie!” he sneers.

I decide to ignore, for the time and being, the fact that I’m being called a ‘yuppie’ by a man named Rupert, although I do make a note of it in my filofax.  A waiter comes over and takes our order.  In the background the story telling has begun.  A Ukrainian war photographer has just taken to the stage and is telling a story about having to take a shit on the frontline during enemy fire.

“Did you know Jennifer Lawrence has become a regular here?” says Rupert.

“At Brody Studios?” I respond.

“Yeah.  In town shooting some film called Red Sparrow apparently.”


The Ukrainian man has finished telling his story.  An American girl has now taken to the stage and is telling a story about stuffing a dead dog in to a suitcase.  To be fair though, I’m not really paying too much attention as I’m too busy scanning the room for Jennifer Lawrence.  She may not know it, but she's being hunted.  It's like The Hunger Games all over again.

My phone buzzes.  It’s a message from my boutique wife.

“Did you get the Nespresso capsules?” she asks.

“Yes baby.” I respond.

“Who’s that?” asks Rupert.

“Zsuzsa, asking if I picked up the Nespresso capsules.”

Rupert shakes his head.


“Bunch of yuppies!” he says.

There he goes again!!  

“I’m not a yuppie!” I protest,  before adding “I grew up in deepest, darkest Wales!  I went to a comprehensive, and...”  But then I’m stopped in my tracks as my phone buzzes.  It’s my boutique wife again.

“Don’t be too late honey.  Remember that Mila has her first cello lesson tomorrow morning.”

Then it hits me.  A moment of clarity.  I’m a man sitting in a private members club, frequented by Jennifer Lawrence, quaffing continental lager and wine with a friend named Rupert. I also shop at a boutique coffee shop and my nearly nine month old baby is taking cello lessons.

“And what?” asks Rupert.

“Oh, nothing.” I say, as we watch a German man tell a story about how how he responded to a midlife crisis by opening a trampoline park.