Oh no. [Campy and playful and maybe overcompensating with dramatic flair for just having seen his sickness writ large across a screen, Prior settles himself on the desk in front of Ianto, leaning in with wide, bright eyes.] I mean the coffee. Jamaican? Fascinating. I was screwing this one Turkish guy, on and off, back in '79 and he made coffee that could throw you across the room and knock you on your ass. Which suited him, actually. Anyway I always heard that whole region - Turkey, Morocco - that the coffee there was really something special.

[Even in '86 Manhattan coffee machines aren't really something to write home about, and there are artisan shops with fifty different brews on the wall, but bless your backwards Welsh heart.]

And a proper espresso machine? Well I'll be damned. Wales sounds wild. So anyway I'm Prior, who're you?