Coco Pinchard's Big Fat Tipsy Wedding: A Funny Feel-Good Romantic Comedy by Robert Bryndza

from under his blanket.
    'What kind?' he said placing a cup under the huge silver coffee machine.
    ‘A latte… It’s got lots of milk in it,' I said.
    'No, I know what a latte is,' he grinned. 'What kind is your dog?'
    'Oh, he’s a Maltese,' I said. The guy had on a tight white t-shirt. On his left pectoral a name tag said, ‘Xavier’.
    'I've got a large sausage,' he said. My eyes strayed to the bulge in the front of his tight black trousers.
    ‘Sausage Dog’s are a lovely breed,’ he added.
    ‘Yes, of course,’ I said, dragging my eyes back up to his. Then I couldn't think of anything else to say. The milk bubbled and squawked as he steamed it in a big jug. When he turned to brew the coffee, I grabbed a couple of handfuls of Rocco’s little milks and slipped them into the pockets of my winter coat. Xavier finished my latte in a swirly pattern, before pressing on a takeaway lid. He leaned over the counter and pulled up the towel. Rocco rolled over and stuck his four paws in the air yawning.
    'You be a good guard dog on the way home,' he said. Rocco opened one eye, sneezed on Xavier’s hand and settled back down to sleep. He came round from behind the counter and opened the door for me.
    ‘Go carefully,’ he winked. ‘I’d hate to see you fall over.’   As I shuffled off in the snow, I felt a little thrilled by the encounter.
    Back at home Rocco drank and drank until he'd emptied sixteen little milks. He then watched me intently whilst I made him a little bowl of plain rice with some organic wild boar meat puppy food (£7.95 a tin) mixed in, but he sniffed it dismissively, turned on his little paws and pranced out to pee in the hallway. So I've found myself with another man I'm cooking for and cleaning up after.

    P.s   Would you babysit Rocco for a couple of hours? I promised I’d go and see Rosencrantz at work.

    Wednesday 8th December   15.37
    TO: [email protected]

    I’ve just been to the Abercrombie and Fitch store to see Rosencrantz. It feels more like a nightclub than a clothes shop. It’s a huge building on Savile Row with video screens filling the windows and music pumping out. The smell of cologne hits you about five hundred yards before you reach the entrance.
    Oscar was stood outside, topless in a pair of jeans and flip flops greeting customers as they streamed past, ogling him.
    ‘Hey Mrs. P!’ he said with a big grin.
    ‘Aren’t you a bit cold?’ I said.
    ‘I’m allowed to wear a wooly hat,’ he said. A group of hysterical Japanese girls appeared and started taking photos.
    ‘Sorry Mrs. P, I need to concentrate now,’ he said seriously as if he were about to perform a heart bypass. The girls threw themselves at him and he almost toppled over.
    Inside the lighting was low, making the artfully laid out tables of folded clothes look even more tempting. The supermodel staff were all dancing unselfconsciously to the music.  
    I spied Rosencrantz boogying away on the second level and climbed the dark wooden staircase to meet him.
    ‘Hello love,’ I shouted.  
    ‘Hi Mum,’ he said carrying on dancing. ‘Are you on your own?’ I said I was.
    ‘The Manager isn’t keen on my family visiting.’
    ‘Why?’
    He told me that Ethel had been in yesterday with her friend Irene, but they hadn’t twigged that Abercrombie & Fitch is a clothes shop. Ethel went up to the till and ordered half a cider and a port and lemon.
    ‘Nan was really rude to the guy serving,’ he said. ‘When he told her she couldn’t have a drink she accused him of being ageist then barged behind the till to pour her own.’
    ‘What happened?’
      ‘He called the Manager and had them escorted off the premises. She’s now barred from every Abercrombie and Fitch in the UK.’ I started laughing.
    ‘It’s not funny Mum. There’s now a CCTV picture of Nan in the staffroom, and underneath it says what to do if you see her.’
    ‘What do you do if you see her?’
    ’Trigger the silent alarm and