And yes, I am talking specifically about coffee, not caffeine in general. Because there’s caffeine in tea and I could give up tea like that (I just clicked my fingers). But coffee! The old ball and chain. The old mistress. It’s perhaps my only ever proper addiction, in that I really think about it if I can’t have it.
People no doubt talk about the “ritual” of making it and all that jazz but I drink it like a common old junkie, for the buzz. I mean, isn’t that the idea? Isn’t that why it sells? It transports me from a barely awake zombie into a, er, fully awake zombie.
I love the stuff.
Love it!
So why not just keep drinking it, Jess, and then you can, you know, write about something more interesting than coffee? After all, It’s not going to kill you… right?
True, dear reader, but it does have some side effects. Firstly, I have realised that it adds to my natural anxiety. By the middle of the afternoon I am a quivering, shaking, headachey mess. And that’s on the good days. But why wouldn’t I be? Putting four cups of Bolivia’s second most potent export into your blood stream is clearly going to mess up your body with its delicate organs and veins and , er, whatever else is in the body (I majored in jokes at school, not science).
It’s that kickstart that’s so appealing. Lying in bed knowing that if I make the effort to get up, in a few minutes I will be having a one-woman party in the kitchen, doing some writing and listening to some new music on Spotify. Paarrrtttyyy!
Calm down, Jess, it’s only coffee.
So how do I take it?
We used to have a big old stainless steel cafetiere that gave you four big cups. Ah, I look back on that thing like a beloved family pet. The times we had!
But then The Thing Happened.
What thing, Jess?
I’ll tell you.
Okay.
The Thing That Happened
A family member bought us a fancy Italian coffee machine last Christmas and never stops going on about it (this gets a mention in Jessica Harper Is Not Woke, where I fictionalize slightly and say that my sister was the donor).
More accurately put, the rest of the family don’t stop going on about it. They idolize this person and everything they do and while I can see this person’s assets as well as everyone else I kinda get sick of all the hero worship. “Everything Ashley and John do is amazing,” as my mother says in the book, which is pretty much the kind of thing she has actually said about the coffee machine bestower.
Secretly I want to get rid of the huffing puffing contraption but unless I fake a burglary it ain’t going to happen. It even came with its own insurance in case of theft or fire or typhoon or UFO abduction (it’s all covered, I swear).
Maybe I’ll start making coffee in the old cafetiere, as a private act of defiance. It’s been biding its time long enough, waiting for its return, like a kind of kitchen accessory Donald Trump.
What is the point of this blog post, Jessica?
I’m glad you asked. I think it might be that I shall pour myself a cup of coffee. Because if I get run over tomorrow, how would I feel then? Apart from in a lot of pain.
“You might as well have kept drinking coffee,” perhaps the paramedic will say, being a man of philosophical inclination.
Coffee.
Mmmmm.
Advice, please.
J x
Jessica Harper Uncanceled 
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