We click-clacked back in the direction of the house. Once inside I dropped my heavy bag onto the floor and kicked off my grubby Primark’s, perching myself on a breakfast stool I rubbed between my blistered toes. Krista assembled a huge stainless steel espresso machine and loaded it with freshly ground Arabica beans.

I sat awkwardly in the clear Perspex bucket seat, my hipster mini skirt retreating like a Blackpool tide. Aware that half my backside would have been visible through the unflattering transparent seat. I shuffled and pulled my skirt down as far as I could. Sitting rather uncomfortably, I managed to force a smile.

The coffee machine gurgled and spluttered as the strong aroma filled the frosty atmosphere.

‘Still having sugar?’ Krista asked.
‘Two, please.’

Krista couldn’t hide her look of disgust as she tweezed two lumps of demerara into the steaming liquid. She handed me a tiny bone china cup with raspberry, lemon and blue wavy stripes running vertically down it.

‘Nice, isn’t it?’
‘Um.’ I replied in disagreement as I sipped the strong black espresso.
‘It cost fifty-eight pounds. It’s a Missoni Home Margherita, I’ve got the whole set.’

The espresso suddenly burnt my throat and the tiny cup seemed to get hotter in my hand.

‘And the silver edging just matches the stainless steel look in my kitchen, don’t you think?’

I almost dropped the Missoni Home Margherita onto the Italian terrazzo floor.

‘Its lovely.’ I lied again, trying not to choke with the shock.

It was quite a pretty cup. The whole coffee service was lovely. But it was a vessel to hold coffee after all. It wasn’t the fucking Holy Grail!

I grimaced as I sipped the murky liquid. It would have tasted just the same served in a cheap earthenware mug. My stomach rumbled out aloud as I yearned for a biscuit to dunk into the designer china.