Starbucks Is Trying To Kill Me Lately, I seem to have acquired just a little bit more money than sense, which is why I am now a regular Starbucks patron. This annoys me in two ways. For one, I can't get the loyalty card registration to work at home, which means I miss out on the free shot of caramel (that I'm not particularly fond of) when I hit 10,000 drinks. I also assume the beige polystyrene tiles in the roof of my local Starbucks will part and a lone balloon will drift out, while I get my photograph taken with the most attractive barrista they happen to have working that day. Hopefully I won't get the one with whore dirt down her fingernails and a thousand-yard stare. The second thing that annoys me is that it's just coffee. For some reason, I now sway towards the logo with the big green woman gazing into my soul and replacing all my previous ambitions with thoughts of fair trade and slow roasted beans. Call me paranoid, but I don't fancy being eyed by a cartoon mermaid thing that doesn't even have any pupils. She reminds me of one of those paintings from Scooby Doo where the eyes follow you. Fortunately, my local Starbucks outlet is quite nice - it's not very big, but the windows let plenty of light in and when it's a nice day all you have to do is read the menu and you're met with a glorious sunbeam on the back of your head. If you're feeling moody, reclusive or simply have to get some work done, you can run downstairs clutching your drink as they have a large underground seating area. I've asked if they do bookings for BDSM parties, as I know people who would quite fancy having their nipples dipped into hot espresso. The manager hasn't returned my call yet. When they do, I'll ask them about my fucking loyalty card. My usual order is a medium skinny latte with an extra shot. It sounds wordy and ultimately pretentious but it isn't as bad as the essays some people let run off the tongue. By the time they've finished, the barrista has hair like Doc Brown as their till smokes, struggling to keep up with just how unique and individual the customer is. There's one particular girl who works there who has a soft spot for me. I know this because she told me. I'm not one to be narcissistic but my order must be a welcome change from the usual caramel injected, double shot this-and-that with extra cream and frapped to the nines. Her eyes are slightly crossed, to the point she could probably stand at the back of the shop with a cigarette and count the hipsters sat at the front, blowing steam from their cups and talking about how hard school is. She focuses them hard enough to get a look at me, so that's nice of her. I also don't bother with this "venti" or "grande" crap. For one thing, the size "tall" is English". The word "grande" is Spanish, and means "big". The next one up is "venti", which is actually Italian for the number 20. The logic makes my brain fart. To me, "grande" should be the biggest. "Venti" shouldn't exist. I'm stupid enough in one language, I don't need to look stupid in three languages. So, I order, and I get my drink. I usually take it out because the cups are nifty. Something troubles me though - on the side of the cup where they scribble any additional information about your coffee (shots, where it was grown, if the customer was a dick, and so on) the number indicating the amount of extra shots is always different. Usually it's 3 when I only ask for 1. This would be alright if a latte had two shots in already, but they don't. I've seen a 2, a 4 and even a blank square. The barrista that makes my drink usually isn't the same one as the one slaving away at a retro till. There's a conveyor belt system, so how do they communicate? Sign language? I've been enough times now that I'd pick up the sign for "give this knob two extra shots and we'll watch him have a seizure in the car park when he leaves". Are they just being nice to me? Or is there some global Starbucks etiquette I'm missing? Good job I carry a hipflask of gin around to neutralise that sweet, sweet caffeine. Me - 1, you - 0.