Craic On

“Where’s the exit?’ I asked, trying to beat a retreat from Café Nero Piccadilly. “First door,” my tea drinking companion replied. If you have ever been curious about what lives in the cupboards of cafes, I can put you out of your misery: There are more loo rolls than have ever been gathered together in one place. There are buckets, industrial quantities of cleaning material to deal with dirt and spilt urine. Then there are wet mops. I’m not talking damp. I’m talking “open the doors and in your face wet”. Any thoughts, about the union of mop, water, bodily fluids and face are best put aside at the moment of impact. As I beat off the onslaught of tumbling loo rolls and wet stinking mop, I could hear the rise of an ovation from the room. It was more of a sit down outpouring of nervous amusement and relief, that “it was me not me” followed by an applause of pity. “Not the first door then,” I mumbled. “I am leaving now,” said my companion, and departed. I have investigated more cupboards than most peop