A season for peaches

I received a postcard from Starbucks yesterday. My first thought was that it was nice of them to send me a postcard from wherever it is that coffee shops holiday, then I realised that this obviously means I'm spending far too much time and money in there. Then - duh! – I realised it was actually an invitation to try a free cup of their exciting new summer beverage - the peach and pomegranate frappuccino!

This was quite exciting for several reasons, the first of which is that free stuff is great. The second reason is that I was sooooo pleased they'd actually sent me the voucher. A few years back, y'see, Starbucks emailed me a voucher for a free frappuccino. I dutifully printed it out on the black and white printer in the office, and took it along at lunchtime - whereupon I had a shouting argument with the manager because she said I should've printed it in colour, at which point I said "not everyone has a colour printer." OK, admittedly we do have one in the office, but I was totally standing up for the little guy who doesn't. So she refused to serve me. Fortunately, another barista took pity on the hot young guy who apparently only had access to a black and white printer and slipped me my free frappuccino. That didn't, however, stop me from complaining to Starbucks, and getting muchos loadsa vouchers in return.

Anyway, I digress.

So, I wandered down to Starbucks at lunchtime and had my regular grande misto while reading through the pages of my unfinished book (yes, surprise surprise - I've sorta started work on it again). Then, as I was leaving, I handed my postcard/voucher over to the barista at the till. She looked at it a little curiously, read out my name (which was printed on it), then read out "wish you were here" which was printed on the front.

Then she looked at me and smiled a little sheepishly. I returned the smile, all the while thinking that I'd kind of like it if she just hurried up and gave me my free frappuccino.

She looked at the postcard again, then smiled at me some more.

"That's… nice." She finally said.

Oh goddammit, I thought, she thinks I'm coming on to her by giving her a freakin' postcard. This would've not only been really stupid and a bit like slipping a girl a note that says "I like you" with a little heart instead of the dot over the 'i' in 'like,' but totally inappropriate bearing in mind someone's track record in dating people who work in Starbucks. I rolled my eyes a little (in my head, not across the counter), and just said "it's for a free frappuccino. Look." And pointed a bit. Then her manager walked up and said "it's for a free frappuccino." The barista sorta said "aaaaah…" then looked at me and smiled. I made sure my face was a mask, a mask that just said "give me my free drink."

A minute later I had my free drink.

Now, after all that I should probably tell you that the idea of a peach and pomegranate frappuccino actually sounded rather vile to me; I really don't like peaches, and pomegranates always sound like one of those all-singing, all-dancing miracle fruits that taste like poopy but are supposed to spring-clean your bowels and add sparkle to your spleen in one foul swoop. But, of course, as I mentioned earlier, free stuff is good. We like free stuff. Altogether now: FREE STUFF IS GOOD!

If worst came to worst I figured I could always give it to that jabbering crazy woman who *always* asks me for cigarettes in Lyric Square.

So I was not expecting great things of the peach and pomegranate frappuccino, and was thus quite shocked to find that it was, in fact, rather nice. Admittedly a little tart, but who among us doesn't like a little tart every now and then, hmmm?

Would I have another one? Yeah, I think I would. Especially if it was free.

Here's the peach and pomegranate frappuccino being carried through the dangerous back streets of Hammersmith. It might look poopy-coloured here, but it was actually a rather vibrant shade of purple. That's PURPLE, not POOPY.

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The inspiration for this post's title comes from, where else, The OC! During the fourth season, Taylor Townsend's french husband, Henri-Michel, writes a book about her called A Season for Peaches, peaches being what he calls her fabulous boobies. Fnar, fnar.

So here, in celebration, is a picture of Peaches! I mean Taylor!

Rawr!

(Am I making the sexy clawed-hand 'rawr!' motion as I say that? You know I totally am!)