It's my own fault

I am creating some sort of café-indulged rod for my own back here.

Walking past the LGBB and Steve, as he played on his iPhone and she sat "working" at her desk in a flurry of Clag, shredded tissue paper and the contents of her craft box, I asked if either of them wanted a drink.

"No, thanks," he said.
"No, thanks," she parrotted. And then, giving it more careful thought, added, "Or maybeeee.... just a 'cino."

I kept walking up to the kitchen and before I could formulate a response, she called out after me, "Have you got that? And some smush-smallows."

Lucky for her she can't say marshmallows. Otherwise, I wouldn't have found the request nearly as cute and amusing. Have you got that? Like I'm some waitr..... oh, wait. I am really a waitress to her, I suppose.

I have indulged her. Why would I not? A 'cino consists of nothing more than a thimble-full of milk, frothed in a ceramic jug and zapped for 20 seconds in the microwave. If that is what makes her heart happy and fulfilled, alongside her morning's work, then it's a no-brainer for me.

Smush-smallows, though. The bloody cheek of 'er!