Hotpalming was the final nail in the coffin of my youth. Even with tattoos up my arms and piercings in both ears, the pain this trend involved was beyond my comprehension.
Like all fads, the beauty was in the simplicity. If you had access to a mug, some boiling water, and instant coffee, you could join the club. You did not even need to drink the coffee. Just take the pain.
Most dipped in two fingertips, and withdrew with nothing more than a few blisters. Those who took hotpalming seriously sunk everything up to their wrist into a steaming vessel, and bit back the screams.
This was a shocking sight at first. People shouted, knocked over cups, reached for bandages. The stern faces of medics and off duty police officers became a common sight around coffee stalls. Many cafes suggested a ban of hot drinks for those under eighteen, although this changed when the money rolled in.
Restaurants started providing ice with every order. Kids wore gloves in sunny weather. Parents howled, but what are you going to do, throw away your kettle?
Soon you drank hot chocolate, and rolled your eyes as another group of teenagers staggered off with their hands in cling film. I reckon the fad was weeks away from dying when everything kicked off.
I happened to be in a cafe that day, sipping herbal tea. No-one else was reading a physical newspaper. A few youngsters were hotpalming, but I focused on the football reports.
The nearest kid looked much like the others. Leather jacket. Make up around the eyes. Hand bathing in his drink. Fifteen seconds was usually the limit. But this kid, he kept his hand locked inside the enamel prison, and the clock on the wall ticked round. His face was still, like he was watching birds skim across a lake.
I had never interrupted a hotpalming session, and did not want to be the stick in the mud that my age suggested. But that clock kept ticking, and his hand remained below the surface. Something oily covered the skin of his coffee.
‘Are you ok?’ I said.
‘How is everything so cold?’ He replied, his eyes getting wider.
Gravity still applied. With a swish of my arm the kid was free. The cup shattered on the floor, steam rising from the contents. Clean white bone protruded from under the sleeve of his leather jacket, still held together despite the lack of any muscle. He flexed his digits into a thumbs up, and grinned a weak grin.
Many other patrons got to their feet, and called for help from the counter staff. But the groups of teenagers sat in silence, hands locked inside their drinks. A greasy chip shop smell overpowered the calming scent of coffee beans.
The radio said something was important.
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