Pret near Barbican Station, Saturday 27th January 2018

Two Stormtroppers came into the cafe, flagged by their steely commanders. A strained hush fell. Food dried in mouth. Eyes fixed heavily to the ground. Tea spoons trembled in hand. They come. They kill.

At just over 3 feet they may seem a little short for Stormtroppers but they were strolling sans helmet today (it being the weekend) and that does add the inches.

With a wary relief I sensed they were not in the frame of mind for a poorly-aimed laser gun spree. They wanted porridge pots and 'the chocolatey things'.

Without their wipe-clean killing masks and in this off-duty environment one got a rare glimpse of the human behind the Imperial death-tool. Their exchanges included -

"Look at me. I. Am. The. King. of the. Chocolate roooooollll"
(included celebratory dance).

"He got TEN kisses. Not fair. I want...umm... FORTY kisses! WHO'S GOING TO GIVE ME FORTY KISSES?!"

"Why does that man have a train on his jacket?.... Does he ... MAKE THE TRAINS GO!?"

"Can we go away from heeeerrrre. I'm bored!"

I now see why the Empire fell. Repeatedly.