I’m
sitting in my office at work watching French Open tennis on my computer. Not
entirely sure that Head Office would see this as a constructive use of my
Monday morning, but there we are. I see it as me relaxing into another working
week without overburdening myself too quickly, so there.
The café at the supermarket
has taken delivery of a couple of new, expensive coffee machines. And when I
say expensive, I mean expensive. They
should be almost three times as quick as the ones they’re getting rid of, which
is good, because a pet hate of mine is how much time it takes to get a cup of
pissing coffee nowadays. You put in your order then stand around for ten minutes
while they fanny about with beans and grinders and milk-heaters and sprinkles. They look very space-age, these new machines.
Very shiny silver and very sleek black, and some impressive glowing green
buttons. Inside, however, they’re just a messy collection of pipes and a few
packets of cheap pre-mixed powder that just gets hot water pumped through it. It’s
an amazing difference – the outer beauty and the inner turmoil – and I wonder
how many people would still be happy to pay £3.50 for a latte if we left the
front of the machine open so they could see how it’s being made. I guess that’s
what we’re paying all the money for – the deception.
RC 28-5-19
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