in time of the quaffing of lattes

Afternoon in the Kylemore foodcourt at the Stephens Green Centre, Dublin.
I am sitting quaffing coffee with Serafina.
Around us the cafe buzzes with life.
The Muslim waitress Privya glares at me prettily across the floor from behind her counter.
Privya is an associate of the Muslim street gang, known as the "black jackets."
(Yes, sports fans, the same Arab Islamic street gang that has been gradually asserting itself in Dublin over the past few years.)
The black jackets they wear are most distinctive by the way.
You can't mistake them.
They are the type of black leather jackets that have never been in fashion anywhere on the planet earth, except perhaps in the Flatbush area of New York where they were briefly considered de rigeur for about two weeks during early 1957.
The gang doesn't let Privya wear a black jacket, mind.
Because she's a girl.
She's just let walk behind them on Grafton Street while they're harassing members of the public.
And the great Nazi bitch thinks she has some sort of acquaintance with me.
When I order a caffe latte at the Kylemore foodcourt, it is her delight in life to present me with a cup of warm milk.
And right this moment her glare across the foodcourt would strip the hump off a camel.
No really.
What on earth can be the cause of her obsession?
Could it be!
Do you think bold readers!
I'm her greatest fantasy!
What is it the Quran says?
"When you go with an infidel baby, you never go back."
I think that's what it says.
Right before the line about it being okay to kill anyone you like whenever you like wherever you like as long as it's done in the name of the peaceloving religion of Islam.
Privya's eyes seem to devour me.
Why, it's undoubtedly sensual.
The business with the milk is clearly a form of sexual invitation.
Meanwhile.
The conversation with Serafina has been intense.
I've been trying to persuade her to leave the employ of Movies For Men, a television station she's working for.
I've trotted out the arguments about pornography objectifying women and contributing to a general derangement in male sexuality.
I've averred with strange high poignancy that it would be more honorable to be unemployed.
I've pleaded, bargained and cajoled.
And suddenly I've gone red as a beetroot.
Because Serafina has just intoned the classic line:
"James, how do you know so much about what films our station is showing?"
Gnurgh bold readers.
I have no further comment to make.
I take a sip of warm milk.
Truly gentle friends of the internet... the cops, the mob, the broads, the jihadis, and now the pornographers... they're all out to get poor Heelers.