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3. Picking sides

I lifted the steaming coffee to my lips, letting the heat caress my face; a huge relief after battling with a snow storm and my own incoordination. Which is not the best trait to have when your whole country gets annually turned into an ice rink..But I didn't love Britain for it volatile weather, I loved it for its ironic sense of quirkiness, and lack of pleasantry's; I much preferred keeping my eyes down, wrapped up in my own thoughts rather than being interrupted at ten second intervals by "friendly" strangers.That wasn't the only British trait I had inherited- I'd also inherited the  trademark British sarcasm- the lowest form of humour apparently... Who says im trying to be funny? England was my favourite place in the world, terrible weather and all.

I will make one exception to the rule, and give America props for Starbucks though. The highly addictive, over priced coffee was my monthly hangout with my friends, plus my treat after tackling a heap load of coursework and tests... or my remedy for bad weather. Okay. Maybe I was a little addicted. But all great minds have some form of addiction. Mine consisted of three things, coffee, books and shoes.

Tucking my Jeffrey Campbell's under my chair I surveyed the room of fellow addicts. A woman typing furiously on her blackberry, her face hidden under a sheet of clean makeup, her pantsuit grey, and ironed perfectly. But beyond

the façade, her frown lines marred her impeccable, sophisticated beauty, and she had a stain just under her collar. I liked people-watching. A strangers antics always intrigued me more then my own, and Starbucks was perfect; the coffee shop was divided into very important, very busy people, couples, hipsters and teenagers.

The VIP's were all clones of this woman, deviating only slightly in hair and eye colour. The couples were self conscious, deliriously happy and furiously trying to convince there partner of their own perfection. The hipsters wore ponchos and came in all ages, sneaking in the front door, cautiously buying there drink of choice and hurrying away before being found out and pinned down by their fellow anti-mainstream friends. then the teenagers, I guess at 15 I should have been the perfect stereotype.

But whilst my peers chatted excitedly, vying for attention, desperately grasping at maturity. I sat alone,book open on table, quietly surveying them. Plus I refused to conform to wearing leggings and "swag" slogan tops. Instead I wore my over the knee socks, 4 inch heels, Burgundy pencil skirt, blouse and blazer, surrounded by several layers of jumpers, coats, scarves and gloves. Also my height didn't help with my solidarity, at 5'11, I dwarfed most of them. Not that I didn't like my height- I loved it.

Only one other person seemed remarkably tall, he was my age or older with six foot legs and broad shoulders... A walking giant. He had a sleepy half smile on his face as he nodded along,to what I could only assume to be, his friends pithy anecdotes. A smile he was directing my way. I blushed,a little annoyed at my own idiocy. No one that gorgeous would be looking at me.

"Uh-hum," A flustered and presently irritated waitress coughed loudly to grab my attention. Only adding to the attractive tomato shade spreading down my neck. "I didn't order that" I claimed but she put down the tall latte anyway. "No, he did," She pointed at the handsome giant I had been previously analysing. He threw me (another) smile which I returned...and that's when my boyfriend walked in. "Hey, Oonagh!"

"Em, Matty,"

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