St Muckymuck - Episode 6 - Moggies Mochas

WHAT YOU ARE ABOUT TO READ IS:

IRRELIGIOUS, IRREVERENT, AND IRRELEVANT.

THE PEOPLE, PLACES, AND EVENTS CONTAINED IN ST MUCKYMUCK ARE COMPLETELY FICTIONAL.  ANY AND ALL RESEMBLANCES TO REAL PEOPLE, REAL PLACES, AND/OR REAL EVENTS PAST, PRESENT, OR FUTURE IS PURELY COINCIDENTAL.  

IN FACT, ANY RESEMBLANCE TO ANYTHING AT ALL WILL BE REMARKABLY COINCIDENTAL.

St Muckymuck's On-Site Coffee Shop - 1.14pm

After mass was over, the choir and 278 worshippers made their way to the church coffee shop, Moggie’s Mochas. It was held every Sunday after the noon mass in the church hall.

Gladys McLeary, who normally ran the church bookstall was behind the counter, arms folded defiantly, glowering at the customers queuing up for refreshments.

She switched on the one and only kettle and arranged all the plastic cups in a row in front of her. She laid out the seven teabags, five sachets of instant coffee and two pot noodles to the right of the kettle. She sniffed the milk, and noted with satisfaction that  it was only 3 days beyond its sell-by date.

Father Eric was at the front of the line, looking at Gladys with suspicion. It was well-known that Gladys, who was also an alto in the choir, held the unenviable record for incurring the biggest financial loss ever made in the history of church souvenir shops.

Last year, along with the Royal Imperial Pool of Finance Bank of Kilcathclyde, she received a government bail out to the tune of £9,677.93 to cover the last six months’ losses.

“Where’s Holly?” Father Eric enquired anxiously, wondering what havoc Gladys would wreak on St Mocheomoc’s reputation this time.

“How would I know?” replied Gladys. “I’m standing in for her. What do you want?” she scowled.

“Oh, emm....” said Father Eric, looking uncomfortable. “Are your hands clean?”

“D’you think I’d make tea with mocket hauns?” she cried, wiping her runny nose with the corner of her apron.

Fr Eric’s eyebrows almost flew off his forehead. He sidled off, covering his mouth with his hankie.

“Noo, just be patient everyone, wan singer, wan song....” she placated the crowd, as they surged towards the counter. “There’s plenty for everyone” she said eyeing up the 16 plastic cups, two thimbles and the cracked beer glass lined up on the counter.

“Whit?” she frowned, as an elderly parishioner placed his order.

“A double chocca mocha, skinny, decaf, extra hot latte? Gie’s a break!” she cried incredulously. “Ye’ll take a cuppa tea and be grateful! £3.50!” She banged it down on the counter.

“Next!” she barked.

“Could I have a bran muffin and a hot chocolate please?”

“Awa' and bile yer heid!” she said without looking up, her head bowed, pouring tea sloppily into the plastic cups lined up before her.

“Can you no’ see I’m wringing oot the tea-bags?” she said, finally looking up.

She blanched. “Oh sorry, your Grace” she said, bobbing into a deep curtsey as she came face to face with Archbishop Biscotti. He stood clutching his staff, his second-best silver mitre wobbling atop his chubby-cheeked face. He looked at her sternly.

“Fairy cake?” she smiled sweetly.

©2010 Steven Gorman.  All rights reserved.