Ah the innocence of a young girl when her mother first takes her for coffee. Not stopping to get a drinking the middle of a frantic shopping trip because nerves are frazzled and tempers stretched further than the overdraft, but an event in itself. The smell of coffee hits the nose. The click of a machine, and the long release of hot watery steam, sounding like a sophisticated elongated sneeze. Twiddling with her earring, the young girl will look at the menu to see a million choices, the equivalent to a FTSE screen whirring by, whilst customers shout their order like traders on the floor. This is a long way from the plastic shop around the corner where they always bring her orange squash and a chocolate cookie. But soon, going for coffee will be a heaven, where she can spill hearts with girlfriends, while away a morning writing, treat herself by relaxing back in a big cosy armchair with only a smile and hot chocolate (and cream, marshmallows, sprinkles and a flake, obviously.) Or simply be. On that first trip, when the nose still wrinkles at the strong aroma, the tongue curls at the bitterness, when she doesn’t even like coffee, the seed is planted.