I’m not a morning person. I like to tell myself that I am – go through phases where I’ll force myself to do exercise or plan classes in the morning, set my alarm earlier than I need to, so I get up. But it doesn’t often last long.
I’ll give you an example of why it’s better for me to stay in bed longer. When I do get up early I require strong black coffee to turn my engine over. Normally, this poses no problem – last week it did. I enjoyed going through the familiar process of filling and putting together the coffee maker – knowing that by the end of that process I’d be out of the grogginess that nearly persuaded me not to roll out of bed, and into the day proper. It wasn’t to be.
Everything went well until I came to take the coffee maker off the top of the stove. Failing to realise how full it was, a more than comfortable amount of scalding coffee splashed onto my hands. Instead of putting it down I danced around the kitchen like an agitated chimp and in the process doused my fingers with the near boiling brew. Stifling a scream, so as not to wake my still sleeping house mate, I slammed it down – covering the only part of my hand to have, thus far, not been seared by my hot morning caffeine shot.
By this time only a pitiful amount remained in the pot. I drank it hurriedly and having run my hand under the cold tap for a time, I went about making another. What I hadn’t noticed was that whilst cutting my bleary eyed fandango across the very small kitchen, I had knocked the sweeping brush onto the floor. Slightly pepped my the meagre amount of coffee I had managed to drink, I slammed the cupboard door with the scalded hand. Usually there would have been no danger of my other, uninjured, hand remaining but as I’d manoeuvred to withdraw it my feet found the fallen brush – and my hand stayed where it was whilst they took a moment to work out what was happening. The cupboard door crashed home, and righty got a bruising too. With both hands now throbbing I stood and waited for my coffee to boil in still silence, no more calamities could occur if I didn’t move or speak.
With all of the above in mind, here’s a poem about coffee and what it does for me when I actually manage to get it in my mouth.
Of all the uppers,
send me around the housers.
You’re my staple.
The one I can rely on,
to throw the switch.
Without launching a spanner into tomorrow’s works,
and coming down to find that everything hurts.
The wheels are set in motion,
the well greased parts turn as they should,
no danger of anything falling off, mid journey.