Confession, and Coffee

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