Wired

Earlier this afternoon I popped out of the office for a smoke and to call my niece who had tried to get me on the phone while I was in a meeting. My jacket was still over the back of my chair, so quite what the rest of the office thought when the air suddenly filled with the Doctor Who theme tune, God alone knows.

Anyway, I managed to get hold of her for a brief chat – she has informed the police of the little difficulty she is having with her ex, and they have advised her to hold off a while to see if he responds to reason. After that they are prepared to go and put the fear of Jebus into him.

Phone call over, and cigarette alight, I was musing about the fact that I had run out of coffee again¹, and plotting a route to Sainsbury’s around the corner so I could get there and back with anew jar of instant before I was too badly missed at work. Of course, it was only after I’d given this rather intense thought, that it occurred to me that I was standing looking at the new Marks and Spencer food hall that has recently opened about 10 yards from our offices. Ah, the combined and powerful influence of habit and a low-wattage brane.

So now I have a new jar of Marks & Spencer’s own brand Italian style rich roast coffee.

It is marked with the number 4 for strength. It doesn’t tell you out of how many, so you have to guess. I still don’t know for certain, but I am guessing it is 4 out of 5; maybe 4 out of 4. Either way, I don’t need to put the customary two heaped teaspoons in the mug while I have this stuff.

Now the next step. Find something to prise my tongue from the roof of my mouth, to which it cleaved halfway through the first sip, and from where it refuses to budge of its own accord. Trust me when I say that a tongue can go rigid with catatonia while the rest of you is surfing the caffeine high. I currently sound like John Mills as the village idiot in Ryan’s Daughter.



¹ No, the old stereotype of the jolly, fat lady coming around the office with the tea trolley and iced buns is out of date and inaccurate – even if it was once otherwise. We don’t even get coffee subsidised like some do in private industry. The best we have is a tea point for hot water, and fridge to keep the milk cold. We have to buy our own comestibles, thank you.

Wired

Earlier this afternoon I popped out of the office for a smoke and to call my niece who had tried to get me on the phone while I was in a meeting. My jacket was still over the back of my chair, so quite what the rest of the office thought when the air suddenly filled with the Doctor Who theme tune, God alone knows.

Anyway, I managed to get hold of her for a brief chat – she has informed the police of the little difficulty she is having with her ex, and they have advised her to hold off a while to see if he responds to reason. After that they are prepared to go and put the fear of Jebus into him.

Phone call over, and cigarette alight, I was musing about the fact that I had run out of coffee again¹, and plotting a route to Sainsbury’s around the corner so I could get there and back with anew jar of instant before I was too badly missed at work. Of course, it was only after I’d given this rather intense thought, that it occurred to me that I was standing looking at the new Marks and Spencer food hall that has recently opened about 10 yards from our offices. Ah, the combined and powerful influence of habit and a low-wattage brane.

So now I have a new jar of Marks & Spencer’s own brand Italian style rich roast coffee.

It is marked with the number 4 for strength. It doesn’t tell you out of how many, so you have to guess. I still don’t know for certain, but I am guessing it is 4 out of 5; maybe 4 out of 4. Either way, I don’t need to put the customary two heaped teaspoons in the mug while I have this stuff.

Now the next step. Find something to prise my tongue from the roof of my mouth, to which it cleaved halfway through the first sip, and from where it refuses to budge of its own accord. Trust me when I say that a tongue can go rigid with catatonia while the rest of you is surfing the caffeine high. I currently sound like John Mills as the village idiot in Ryan’s Daughter.



¹ No, the old stereotype of the jolly, fat lady coming around the office with the tea trolley and iced buns is out of date and inaccurate – even if it was once otherwise. We don’t even get coffee subsidised like some do in private industry. The best we have is a tea point for hot water, and fridge to keep the milk cold. We have to buy our own comestibles, thank you.