No use crying over spilt latte

Woke up on the sofa at 6am, happy to have had a lie-in. As it had been a rather horrific night, I was keen to see daylight so I jumped up, had a five minute shower and was out the door like a flash…

Oh wait, no that must have been a dream or one of those enticing but wholly unhelpful flashbacks. I got up in 3D slow motion as if emerging from a primordial sticky soup of treacle, shuffled to the bathroom where, on not very close inspection, I decided I looked if not acceptable, then at least not so offensive as to cause any coffee mongers to take umbrage.

The hunt for caffeine was on.

As I realised I wasn’t feeling the greatest and gauging my window of agility not to last much longer than 20 minutes, I opted not to go to my local, favourite cafe. Truth be told, I also didn’t want the friendly staff there to see me like this.

But as this is the larger Sydney metropolitan area AD 2019, the number of cafes is astounding. Even this side of Mooney Mooney…

I managed to park my car, slither out the door and make my way to another cafe nearby, managed to order, pay and leave with the prized small latte without feeling too much like having had to cop the usual ‘What’s wrong with this joker?’ experience.

Balancing said liquid gold atop of my set of wheels (did anyone ever think referring to a car in this way was cool? apparently, I did. just now), I body popped back behind the wheel, my coffee now safely tucked away in the trusted rubber drinks holder, and – small mercies – for once I had no trouble putting on my seat belt.

Two minutes later, I was parked in the street at the front of my building. Fully anticipating the mundane yet invaluable pleasure of within moments now being able to sit down and sip that first splendid sip, my fingers started slipping, a momentary wobble and – alas poor latte I knew him well (or rather not at all) – the rich fragrant content spilled out all over the driver seat’s foothold or whatever the F that bit of the car is called where you keep your feet while driving.

All this even before breakfast.

Or coffee.


NME Awards arrivals at the O2 Brixton Academy London, England.
I always did like Clover Moore, even after he left The Cure to become Lord Mayor of Sydney.


*) UPDATE – Just had the best breakfast/coffee/with no stares or cares and with a private ocean view at mere shuffling distance from home #iloveoz #swings&roundabouts



One thought on “No use crying over spilt latte

  1. Ik zie het helemaal voor me…… zo beeldend schrijf je…… je ochtend begon niet zoals zoals je in je droom beschrijf lieverd, met alle narigheid van dien….. maar wat een gave bezit je lieve broer…… de gave van “je pen” ….. jouw woordenkeus is zo mooi…. soms begrijp ik het niet helemaal ( mijn tot 12 jaar Engels hihihi) maar je schrijft prachtig.

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