Why does the exception have more gravitational oomph than the ordinary?  Most days I was in New Jersey I went to have coffee and something, like the sfogliatelle, featured in a previous blog in the company of Mr Farmhand and my friend, at Rose's cafe and found it to be a model of neighbourhood bon hommie. Quite often I was introduced to the folk at the next table, and people generally caught up with who was doing. The fellow at the next table here was the exception not happy, dolorous one might say. To be morose  in the company of pastries and coffee seems a special talent.