Normally, Starbucks is a great place to sit and write. I write, they bring me coffee, I drink it, and the cycle goes ever onwards. (Yes, I know Starbucks is the devil's company but it's the only coffee place in town. My home town is only now reluctantly dragging itself out of the late 1970s.)
However, the cycle gets horribly disrupted when a ten-year-old brat sits down next to me and keeps shouting, "What you writing? What you writing?" in my ear while his mother smiles indulgently.
I blame three large mugs of coffee for my response.
"Gay porn. Now fuck off, you little brat."
I don't know why his mother was so upset. He asked.