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Aged 3, an Italian coffee bar, Pembrokeshire The green door's shut fast and I'm outside, too small to reach the brass lion, just tall enough to press the letter flap, smell pastry baking, hear kitchen clatter and chatter. They can't hear me. I hop, jump, blow on my hands, but it's too cold to wait. Seagulls caw. Leaves flutter. Eight black patent steps to the corner and, before I can cross - not many cars..I can do this - I am swept up, embraced by a man with hairy arms, a crisp, crackling shirt, a wide belt with a buckle which makes weals on my legs, lifted high into a castle of glass, marble and metal, where loud people eat ice-cream even in winter, where a hot drink doesn't mean a nice-cup-of-tea, but something that comes hissing from a shiny chrome dragon, something strange and faintly bitter Here I can sit on tables, eat sugar cubes, cake, anything I like, visit the cook: I am sage, princess, honoured guest, welcomed by all except the spitting, sullen coffee dragon who sulks at me from his countertop lair. Safe in this palace..bambino, bambino. |