Almagest: The celebrated work of Ptolemy of Alexandria which contains nearly all that is known of the astronomical observations and theories of the ancients

Cat: Any animal belonging to the natural family Felidae and in particular to the various species of the genera Felis Panthera and Lynx

Antediluvian: Before the flood or Deluge in Noahs time

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Standing in line for my morning Starbucks Mocha – one shot, no cream, thanks – I was suddenly struck by the oddest thought: Had there been an antediluvian equivalent of reality television?

Had scribes followed Noah around in the years preceding the flood, talking to the bearded weirdo and his family, chipping every word and embarrassing mishap into hard baked clay tablets? Had people copied these words onto papyrus? Onto vellum? And if so, how many calves had to perish so that the Nephilim could keep up with the Noahs?

‘Yes Sir, what can I get for you?’

‘Mocha to go, one shot, no cream – ta.’

‘And the name?’

I hated this bit. Why did he need to know my name? It was friendliness that veered into the uncanny valley, a pastiche of sincerity – and all for fucking coffee. I liked to challenge them.

‘Almagest,’ I said.

Ptolemy’s masterwork felt like an appropriate pseudonym – after all it was something that had once been deemed utterly essential to everyday life, only to be revealed as full of bullshit and lies centuries later. I liked to think the same thing might happen to Starbucks one day.

The barista gave me a strange look that quickly diluted into one that said ‘ha ha, very funny, I know what you’re doing, but I’d rather keep the green mermaid happy than play your little game…’

‘Ok Sir, just stand at the counter and your drink will be ready shortly.’

Moving past the endless varieties of smartly bagged coffee beans – Colombian, Ecuadorian, Brazilian, Something elseian – I recalled that somewhere in Asia there was a type of coffee brewed from beans digested and excreted by cats…maybe weasels? I’m not sure. Maybe it would come back to me after a caffeine boost.

I lingered amongst the other zombies by the counter, half awake city types, a real army of the walking dead. Every single one of us trying our best to ignore each other, avoiding eye contact, desperately waiting for our name to be called first.

Without social media this must have been what Noah and his family’s fans were like. Zombies stood around waiting to see which animal would turn up next, clay in hand for an autograph that was only going to get washed away at some point. At least, that was the case if you believed what Noah said. ‘Can you chisel “good luck in the flood,” please?’ Pathetic.

‘Almagest!’ called a thick Spanish accent.

‘Here!’  I replied greedily, taking the hot foam cup like a grail and instantly taking a sip. Mmm, liquid corporation.

Pushing through the crowd, growing like a sleepy coral reef, I felt relieved to feel a cool breeze on my face again, the acrid tang of South American coffee now no more than a footnote.

I looked at the side of the coffee cup, curious to see how they’d managed to misspell my misnomer this morning.

Written in thick, black strokes were four letters: ‘CUNT’.