Coffee-shop conquerors, just take your latte and go The chain café has become a microcosm in which to view the most irritating sections of society. The most trying people on the planet are drawn to branches of Starbucks like bluebottles to ordure. It's enough to make me give up coffee, if that wouldn't drive me to gun down everyone queuing for their "venti chai lattes." Speaking of which, can we please not turn up with orders as long as our arms for everyone in the office, and pay for each order separately, with coppers? In the time it takes to do this, you could have flown to Kenya and back and harvested your own beans. Yummy mummies slurping on frappuccinos: I understand you are tired. But must you shriek at the top of your lungs about the woman in yoga class being taught a lot more than "downward dog" by the teacher? Also, could you tell your husband that when he has to "babysit" the children, he should stay at home: it's embarrassing to watch his attempts at parking the Bugaboo next to the display of Fairtrade coffee, his humiliation completed when the baby food goes everywhere but the child's mouth, while the coffee he paid almost a fiver for sits on a table going cold. Over-specific orderers: you want a grande wet soya half-caf cappuccino extra hot? Who the hell do you think you are, Mariah Carey? Under-specific orderers: no, you can't have a "coffee" at these places. You need at least to order a tall macchiato with an extra shot. Finally, people who go to Starbucks/Caffè Nero/Costa, and then moan about Starbucks/Caffè Nero/Costa (usually laptop-wielding, coffee-shop conquerors): would you just go home and drink your Nescafé instant? On Wednesday I tried not to gag as a Channel 4 presenter explained the mating ritual of the fox. This was Foxes Live, which over the course of the week delved into the world of... well, the fox. I suppose I could have turned off, but the urban renard has become so much a part of my life that it would be like switching off a programme about my mother. Every evening one rips through the neighbourhood bins, and often I am accompanied by a mangy creature for my walk home from the Tube. On Saturday I saw a giant fox chasing next door's cat through the garden. "And now," I moaned, as I watched C4, "they are taking over the television too!" My cry was met with a screech from the neighbourhood vixen. Bring back fox-hunting, I say - at least in cities. I fall a little more in love with Hillary Clinton every time she opens her mouth - between her and Bill, I might just melt clean away. This week the US Secretary of State admitted she had given up fretting about her looks, revealing she had stopped wearing make-up and styling her hair. And she looks better for it! Ah, is there anything more appealing than a woman who couldn't give a damn what you think about her?