WIP: cafetière

A conversation at work yesterday reminded me of this extract from my yet-to-be-edited quiz team WIP. While setting up for their annual camping trip, the team reflect on the significance of cafetieres. They are not fans.

Some strong language.

“Hey, where were you when we did this last year, Clarrie?” Sonny asked, crouching down to gather some bits of kindling. “Wasn’t much fun just the lads. Dave nearly had to get his tits out instead, just to relieve the sexual tension.”

“Look, I have never got my tits out at camp, nor will I be doing so at any point this weekend, ok?” Clarrie unzipped one of the tent bags and tipped the contents out on to the damp grass. “There isn’t enough booze in the world. And I don’t know why I wasn’t here last year, I don’t remember.”

“She was busy playing Hide the Chorizo with that posh bastard Ed, that’s why,” Dave said with a grin.

“Oh yeah, that was it,” she said, wincing. “He forced me to go meet his parents. God, it was awful. Did you lot really think he was posh?”

“He was a bit, Clar,” Si said, spreading out the tent flysheet a little way from the fire.

“Yeah, remember that time you made us all go round his? He had a cafetiere and everything,” Dave said. “And he used it as well, didn’t just keep it in the cupboard at the back and forget he had it like any normal person. I bet he went to Eton and grew up in a castle.”

“What, just because he had a cafetiere?” Clarrie said with a laugh.

“No. He drank red wine as well. And he knew the difference between the kinds of red wine. You can’t trust a bloke like that, you know. You’d be better off with Si.”

“Wasting your breath, mate,” Si said to Dave. “I’ve been telling her that for ages. She’d rather eat houmous with poshoes than give me a go.”

“Come on, Si, you’re pretty posh.” Clarrie smiled at him as they sorted through the tent poles together, laying them side by side in size order. “You’re a teacher, that confers automatic wisdom and poshicity.”

“Yeah, but I haven’t got a fucking cafetiere, have I?”

There was a beep from Dave’s jeans pocket. He dumped his pile of twigs down on the fire platform, fished out his smartphone and swiped the screen to open the text.

Sonny frowned. “Thought we had a no phones rule at these things.”

“Yeah well,” Dave said, his eyes skimming the screen. “That was when everyone I knew was already here, wasn’t it?”

“Oh no, mate. Not fucking… Yoko.”

Dave looked up to grin at him. “Go on, you’re just jealous. She wants to come up and have a beer with us this evening. That’s alright, isn’t it?”

“No it bloody isn’t. There’s a no girlfriends rule as well.”

“You used to bring your girlfriend.”

Sonny flinched at the reference to Gemma. “That was different. When we started this she wasn’t my girlfriend, she was just one of the gang.”

“Look, Sonny, we have to spread out a bit, the group’s too incestuous as it is. We’ve only got one lass left now and Si’s bagsied her. If you force me through any more years of celibacy I’m going to end up going out with you.”

Clarrie laughed. “Please, that’s been on the cards for years. And I’m not available via the bagsying system, by the way.”

“We’d love to see Lyndsey, Dave. Tell her to come on up,” Si said as he slotted a tent pole together. He turned to Sonny and waggled the pole at him. “Hear that, sunshine? Manners.”

“Stop trying to impress Clarrie, Si.” Sonny sloshed lighter fluid over the little pile of logs and kindling now arranged on the fire platform. “You’ll be off buying cafetieres next. You know she gets hot for them.”

“I do not get hot for cafetieres. Stop with the bloody cafetieres, ok? You’re obsessed.”

“Yeah, you want us to stop because it’s making you moist.” Dave came up behind her and tickled her on the hips. “Cafetiere fetishist.”

“God, you guys are dicks.”

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