I am not a religious man. But I will admit, I am drawn by curiosity to those holy places where congregations gather for a daily ritual of feasting and communion. I’m talking of course, about Tim Horton’s.

The last time I bought a cup of coffee was on a cold January morning in 1972. It cost 25 cents and tasted like dish water. Since then I have made my coffee at home by a traditional method involving a clay teapot and an old sock.

But on Tuesday, being out and about, I decided on a whim to pop in to a “Timmy’s” for a nice hot cup of caffeine. It didn’t go all that well.

There was a long queue of dithering wrinklies:

“Shall we have hot chocolate today?”

“Why, is it Wednesday?”

When the octogenarian in front of me eventually reached the buxom middle-aged serving person, I heard him tell her he had dribble trouble.

Ever keen to strike up conversation with strangers, I chimed in: “Me too,” I said. “I blame my dentures.”

He didn’t turn around but I could see the grey hairs on the back of his neck twitching. The serving person raised her eyebrows at me and glared with a look of astonishment and sympathy, then turned back to her customer.

“A triple double?” she asked. He nodded.

Apparently this is some sort of secret code, a language invented by Tim Horton’s so that only people who understand it can get a drink.

When my turn came I just asked for a medium.

“Cream and sugar?” enquired the serving person, mercifully reverting to her native tongue. I have never understood putting cream in coffee. It’s not dessert, it’s a beverage.

“Milk please,” I said politely. She blinked.

“Sorry?”

“Milk,” I said. “I just want some milk”.

She looked blank.

“Milk,” I repeated. I mimed the milking of a cow, pumping my arms up and down with closed fists. Then I realized I was inadvertently gazing at her ample bosom. I looked up. She was staring at me as if I was having a stroke. Or trying to.

“Ooohhhh kayyyyyyyy,” she said, and disappeared. When she returned she took my money and passed me a paper cup. It was cold.

“It’s cold,” I said.

“Yes,” she replied, “it’s milk”. She leaned forward. “Milk is supposed to be cold,” she said.

“I know that,” I replied. “I’m not four. I wanted coffee.”

“But you said…” she started. Then she sighed, and went to fetch me a coffee.

I took it to a table. It had a flimsy lid on it with a little plastic lip which one is supposed to peel back to access the beverage, but it kept flopping about and when I tried taking a sip it struck me in the nose. As a consequence, I had considerable dribble trouble. And the coffee had cream in it.

So I left and went to Value Village for some socks.

— The Grumpy Old Git can truly complain about anything.