I’m drinking far
too much coffee at the moment.
It’s a habit
that’s only come into being over the past few months. I’m generally quite
health-conscious: I’m a pescatarian that avoids milk and eats very little dairy
produce (that’s right: I’m a barrel of laughs) – and at home I’ll generally opt
for caffeine-free drinks such as redbush and camomile tea. I used to have
one cup of coffee a day at most.
It's worth clarifying that I’m not
completely clean-cut:
once a week I pop
down to my local duck pond and punch a swan, just to redress the balance.
Everyone’s got to have a vice.
This blog is part
of the root of the problem: this is my fortieth consecutive post in so many
days (dickhead) – and the vast majority of these have been written whilst sat
in my favourite local coffee shop. If I’ve got nothing else on (diary-wise, not
clothing), I’ll arrive mid-morning, and try to knock something up in a hour at
most.
(Possibly not the best choice of wording.)
As a by-product,
my caffeine intake has increased considerably. I do try and intersperse the
mugs of coffee with the occasional herbal tea - but sometimes the lure of the black
Americano proves too much to resist.
It’s also reached
the point where the staff recognise a black coffee as my “usual”. Who am I
to contradict them? I try my best to live up to my own self-enforced cliché.
I’m usually all
right whilst in the relative safety of the coffee shop – but it’s during the
walk home that my caffeine overdose becomes evident. Some days I’m as shaky as over-worked
Judy Finnegan.
God knows what
I’d be like if I discovered crack.