top of page

Ideas Over Coffee

Updated: Jan 4

The coffee lid is cracked. Of course it is. A slick of oat milk and dark roast spreads in a jagged line down my cream cardigan. I see James round the stairwell coming up from the café. Perfect. I fold my bag over the stain, tilting it just enough to conceal the panicked dabbing of a tissue I dug from the depths of my bag – probably used, but I’m too flustered to care.


‘Miss your mouth again?’


Perfect. James slides into the seat opposite with the air of someone who’s caught you mid-blunder. I press the tissue harder, aware it’s a losing battle.


‘How was your appointment? All fixed?’


‘Hurt like fuck. But I feel like he’s added two inches to my spine.’ James shifts in his seat, pushing his shoulders back in an exaggerated attempt at good posture. It’s oddly endearing in its effort, even though we both know the sofa will reclaim him by tomorrow, laptop balanced precariously on his knees.


‘Coffee?’


His fingers tap the table – once, twice, then stop. His gaze is over my shoulder, distant – that far-off look he gets, like he’s replaying a scene only he can see. I glance behind me. As suspected, just a blank wall. 


‘James?’


‘Hi,’ he blinks, rebooting.


‘Coffee?’


‘Yeah. How is it?’


‘Good,’ I say slowly, checking in his eyes if he’s ok. ‘Want one?’


‘Yeah, I was just about to go.’


‘It’s fine – I’ll get you one.’


‘Ah thank you. I’ll get the next one.’


He says it like he means it, but we both know it’s not practical. James’s finances are a patchwork at best, and we both know he’d put coffee on his credit card if it meant keeping things even between us. Not that I’d let him. Essentials first. Like a job.


I open the app and scroll through the menu, glad to avoid the counter downstairs. The café’s hum presses in at the edges – fragments of chatter, the faint grinding of beans below, a sharp clink of porcelain cutting through now and then. My thumb keeps moving over the screen, steady and deliberate, as if the small action might keep the sounds from crowding too close.


‘Do you want Oat mi—’ When I glance up, James isn’t there. I spot him heading down the stairs.


‘James!’ I call after him. He doesn’t turn. He rarely does. It’s always hard to tell if he hasn’t heard or if he’s ignoring me. Logically, I know it’s the former, but there’s always that seed of doubt I can never shake.


He returns a few minutes later juggling two coffees and a till receipt long enough to wallpaper a room. 


‘What?’ he asks, seeing my expression.


‘I said I’d get these.’


‘Did you?’


I can’t take my eyes off the receipt. ‘Did you buy the café?’


‘They gave me till roll.’


‘Why?’


‘I asked for pen and paper.’


‘Right,’ I say slowly. ‘But why?’


He places the coffees on the table and flattens the receipt between us. His knee starts bouncing again under the table. ‘I’ve got an idea.’


Of course he does. This is how it starts with James. There’s no preamble, no soft lead-in. Just a nugget dropped between us, as if I’m supposed to pick it up and run with it. Every conversation with James is like solving a cryptic – one where half the clues are missing. It makes me want to scream into a cushion. Instead, I sigh and roll my eyes. He takes this as encouragement. It isn’t.


‘What’s wrong with the world?’ he asks.


I blink. ‘Everything.’


‘Be specific.’


‘People. Why?’


‘I want to make a difference. Leave a mark. And I have realised recently that everything in my life that I’ve enjoyed has had an entrepreneurial aspect to it. So that’s what I want to do. Start a business that could help make the world slightly better.’


‘Ok. But how?’


He waves the till roll like a flag of intent. ‘That’s what this is for.’


For the next two hours – and three coffees – we fill it with everything wrong, broken or just plain ridiculous in the world. Deforestation. Plastic Pollution. Poverty. Hunger and Malnutrition. Education Disparities. Gender Inequality. Disability Discrimination. Corruption. Inefficient Policies. Unfair Labour Practices. Corporate Greed. Healthcare Inequality. Mental Health Stigma. Drug Addiction. Misinformation. Data Privacy Violations. Human Trafficking. Animal Cruelty.


And on and on. No order. Just scribbles. Really depressing scribbles.


When the list is done, he sits back and stares at it, his knee still bouncing. Then, he draws a large, looping circle around everything.


‘Human behaviour,’ he says.


I lean in, trying to follow.


‘Everything here – everything wrong with the world – it’s caused by people. The way we act, the choices we make. It all comes back to that.’


‘So, people. Which is what I said.’


My words fall into the abyss as he stares, trying to unravel his new puzzle. ‘Nah, too broad. There are groups.’


He leans forward, pen poised, and starts grouping the list into tangled categories: environment, political, economic, social inequalities, technology, ethics, wellbeing. Ink bleeds together in webs of circles and arrows. He steps back from the madness and looks at it again.


Yep. I was sitting opposite a man who was literally trying to fix the world, on three oat flat whites and no lunch. I might add this to the list. 


‘Fuck. All wrong.’


I haven’t got a clue what he’s on about, and I’ve got nothing to contribute. My fingers trace the rim of my empty coffee cup, circling it over and over as if it still holds something. The motion is steady, soothing – something to ground me while the conversation drifts further out of reach.


‘I’m looking at this all wrong. The categories don’t matter. The cause matters.’

James starts regrouping the items, circling and recircling as his thoughts take shape. His movements are sharp, decisive. But, at this point from where I’m sitting, it now just looks like he’s colouring the rest of the receipt in. More circles, more illegible writing. 


‘What can’t we change?’ he says aloud. ‘What don’t we want to change? And what’s left?’


‘What do you mean?’


‘No point getting upset or angry about something when there’s nothing we can actually do about it. And there’s certainly no reason to get upset about something we could do something about but don’t.’


‘I might put that on my sister-in-law’s next birthday card,’ I joked. I laughed. James didn’t. I don’t think he even knew where he was anymore. 


I watch as he crosses out entire sections of the list, his expression shifting with each strike of the pen. There’s something captivating about the intensity, the way his focus narrows until the rest of the world seems to dissolve. I feel a strange mix of admiration and exasperation.


‘Most of this,’ he mutters, pointing at the remaining list, ‘comes down to…’ 


He drifts off. His fingers twitch, and his eyes glaze over, as though he’s staring through the table and into the mechanics of the universe itself. The download happening in his head seems too big for his brain.


‘Why aren’t people taught about money?’ he says at last. His voice has a strange edge, like he’s asking a question he already knows the answer to but can’t accept. ‘Why is debt encouraged? Credit cards, car payments, mortgages. Marketing tricks people into spending what they don’t have on things they don’t need.’


‘You think you can change that?’


‘You can’t change it from the top down.’


I wasn’t tracking. I tried at the coffee stain again, but this time with a lick of the thumb and a rub. 

Nope. That’s not budging. 


‘People don’t know how to manage money. They’re not taught the right lessons – or any lessons really. What if they changed?’


‘So, what’s your plan? Teach them?’


‘No.’


Of course it’s not. Back to the cryptics. I resign, letting the conversation settle into silence. James picks up the pen again, scribbling something on the edge of the receipt. His knee stops bouncing, but I can see the energy hasn’t left him. It never does.


‘People don’t want to learn.’


I had to agree. Learning about money wasn’t high on my list either – and I like to learn. Most people just want things done for them. They’re lazy. And many just want something without working for it. It’s why people play the lottery. But people are becoming expectant of having things they don’t work for now. Like it’s their right. Entitled.

James looked at me. I said that aloud. 


‘You’re absolutely right. So how do we give people control, without them learning anything or putting any effort in themselves, whilst also not stopping them from living the lifestyle they so dream.’ 


Erm. Yeah. I was in too deep now. He was expecting me to answer. Can’t he just go back to being a robot and figure that out himself? 


‘I don’t know if you can.’ 


He smiled at me as if to say, “Hold my pint.” only less cool. 


I did, however, hold our empty cups, took them downstairs, and got a refill (decaf this time though). I must have been gone no more than 10 minutes before returning to find James now writing on his arm because he had run out of space on the receipt. 


‘Erm. Whatcha doin’?’ 


The scribbles continued. 


‘James?’ 


‘Hang on.’ 


A few moments later, he slams the pen down with a grin, like a kid caught red-handed after scribbling all over the walls – except the walls were his arm.


‘I’ve got it.’


‘Got what?’


‘A way to—wait, where did this coffee come from?’ He cuts himself off mid-thought, his eyes darting to the steaming cup in front of him.


‘I got it.’


‘When? It’s hot!’


Is he being serious? ‘Just now. James, are you okay?’


He waves off my question – or maybe his brain’s already jumped back to whatever he was saying before the coffee derailed him. ‘So, I’ve created a whole new system to manage personal finances. And I think I can automate it – make it fit into people’s lives so seamlessly they won’t even have to think about it.’


I sip my coffee, waiting for him to elaborate. When he doesn’t, I ask, ‘You really think you can do this?’


‘I think I have to.’


Recent Posts

See All

Significant Moment

The fire in the corner of the old barn stuttered, the warmth it offered giving way to the sharp bite of January air. Lance felt the chill...

What's Your Worth?

People don’t think about me much until they have to. Then suddenly, I’m all they can think about. Some beg. Some bargain. Some try to...

Comments


bottom of page