I’m a recent coffee convert. It’s awkward, because now I’m not allowed to make fun of ‘coffee people’.
I used to scoff at packs of gents in Lycra sipping espressos after their Sunday morning ride on $10,000 bikes. And I’d snigger as I waited to pay for my bottle of juice while someone’s skinny double shot latte was lovingly crafted.
For a long time, I didn’t get it. Then something happened, kids maybe, and I needed something to punctuate the day. Also, people seemed to get together ‘for coffee’. I was lonely, so I sometimes joined them. No one makes plans to talk over juice, do they? I liked the coffee, I loved the catch-ups and I was hooked.
Now I have a coffee ritual – I love it, but it means I can’t take the mickey out of others. My ritual goes like this:
After I make breakfast, pack lunches, shout a bit, look for a swimming cap, take a teddy off the dog, rummage for clean socks and shout a bit more, I drop three kids at two schools. My route takes me past a number of cafes. My favourite, naturally, is the first one I pass, but parking is iffy and there’s sometimes a woman in front of me in the queue who I find overly chatty BC (before coffee).
If there’s a parking space and I can’t spy Chatty-Woman, I’m in there.
I take my skinny capp and go. Either to my desk at home, or to the office. Either way, not a word gets written until the cup (regular size) is empty. Then the workday begins.