The coffee tastes of boiled semi-skimmed and yesterday's ashtray. Far from a pick-me-up, it becomes just another pointless thing to carry; a grown-up's drink in a baby's beaker. Absorbed in anticlimax and mildly angry as I somehow always am when there is no one waiting at Eurostar arrivals with a a great big grin - it is a journey which, I feel, merits some sort of romance - I trudge red and harassed through the vast station, past grungy backpackers, babbling tribes of Japanese teenagers, and big girls with wobbling bottoms resplendent in tight, shiny leggings. The sort of girls whose fake tan makes their hairline resemble a Lanzarote beach at low tide. The sort with hair extensions and, Lord help us, Ugg boots. English girls.
Up ahead, some sort of absurdly grinning air-hostess is standing in front of a lurid stall, gormlessly shoving a tray of tiny bottles in front of innocent passers-by. As I traipse past, she jabs one at me, baring her teeth like some maniac hyena. The red mist descends further.
'Yakult?!' she leers.
God, no.
Why on earth would anyone actually go to the trouble and expense of bottling a substance which so closely resembles semen with added Splenda? Who, pray, would actually pay to be faced with the "spit or swallow" dilemma every morning? Dear me, no. Save yourself the cash and make your boyfriend's week. I really can't imagine your "millions of friendly bacteria" would hold it against you.
I recoil and scowl at the Yakult-harpy. She cowers, and for a long moment I bask in the precious, precious look on her face. The mist is lifting.
So typical: in France you might be accosted with generous chunks of warm, chewy pain artisanal or a glistening, majestic wedge of apricot tart by a stout Frenchman, his flour-dusted apron straining hard to contain belly and bonhomie. In England, we're force-fed bodily fluids masquerading as health foods. And, being British, we gushingly, joyously accept this gruesome sludge because, well, who doesn't love a freebie? It's enough to make one scurry back under the channel faster than you can say Sarkozy.
Up ahead, some sort of absurdly grinning air-hostess is standing in front of a lurid stall, gormlessly shoving a tray of tiny bottles in front of innocent passers-by. As I traipse past, she jabs one at me, baring her teeth like some maniac hyena. The red mist descends further.
'Yakult?!' she leers.
God, no.
Why on earth would anyone actually go to the trouble and expense of bottling a substance which so closely resembles semen with added Splenda? Who, pray, would actually pay to be faced with the "spit or swallow" dilemma every morning? Dear me, no. Save yourself the cash and make your boyfriend's week. I really can't imagine your "millions of friendly bacteria" would hold it against you.
I recoil and scowl at the Yakult-harpy. She cowers, and for a long moment I bask in the precious, precious look on her face. The mist is lifting.
So typical: in France you might be accosted with generous chunks of warm, chewy pain artisanal or a glistening, majestic wedge of apricot tart by a stout Frenchman, his flour-dusted apron straining hard to contain belly and bonhomie. In England, we're force-fed bodily fluids masquerading as health foods. And, being British, we gushingly, joyously accept this gruesome sludge because, well, who doesn't love a freebie? It's enough to make one scurry back under the channel faster than you can say Sarkozy.
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