As I’m sure I have mentioned previously I’m rather partial to the odd cup of coffee. But after today it would be fair to say that that love affair has most likely come to an
end.

Here’s why.

My day always starts and ends with a cuppa courtesy of Mrs P.

It’s not that I can’t make it myself. It is just that in our family I am universally regarded as making the worst coffee possible.

Actually, if I’m being completely honest, my reputation as a terrible coffee maker extends way beyond the confines of the family unit.

Numerous relatives, friends and work colleagues will attest to the fact my skills when it comes to preparing anything involving a combination of coffee, milk, sugar and hot water are sadly lacking. And that’s being charitable.

In fact, a previous boss threatened me with dismissal at my first newspaper so convinced was he I was sabotaging his first cup of the day on purpose to make some obscure point.

The poor chap gutsed it out for the best part of two weeks, presumably thinking the awful blend he’d forced down was just a bad one. Everyone is allowed one aren’t they? Surely I would get better?

Unfortunately I didn’t and the responsibility for the editor’s coffee fell to another cadet reporter.

A quick aside here. We actually swapped duties. She took over the coffee and I took over collating the daily meteorological reports.

This led to a classic line in our newspaper shortly after when, announcing my new role to the readership along with some other editorial changes, the editor wrote “The weather is now under new management”. I’ve always enjoyed that bit of tongue in cheekiness.

Anyway. Back to the coffee. Before it gets cold, boom, boom.

So, every morning and afternoon Mrs P makes me one of her Just Right specials. Except obviously when she’s away and I have to make my own. Like the other day.

Now I don’t know about you but for me my wake-up cuppa has become a habit. If it’s not right my day can’t start properly.

And, in short, my disgusting dishwater-tasting, transparent looking effort did not cut the mustard so I high-tailed it to the BP Wild Bean down the road and ordered a large mochaccino, which is a mixture of coffee and chocolate.

So there I am the other day hoping to kick start my day with store bought liquid and I’m completely away with the fairies.

I get my coffee and amble outside to my car.

Stupidly, I’m not watching where I go and do one of those “steps” down the short kerb which we’ve all done at some stage.

Naturally I try to skip out of the stumble at the end so I look like I know exactly what I’m doing but I’m thinking its more than likely all the people filling up their cars and all the folk at the traffic lights 20 yards away have seen my stumble and are wondering if I’m just getting home after a big night out.

Regardless, all the jerking and stumbling has occurred with my coffee cup in hand and somehow I’ve managed to loosen the lid.

So now you know where this is going.

As I try to make out my stumble was nothing (I do it all the time sort of thing) I go for a casual slurp on my coffee. Unfortunately, as I tip, the lid comes away and half of the chocolatey liquid is deposited down the front of my jersey.

Fortunately its cold so I’m wearing several layers of clothing, the bottom one of which is a thermal and it soaks up the hot fluid before it gets to my skin.

But now I need to go home and change.

By the time I’ve done that I’m running late – mainly because with Mrs P being away I’ve not kept up with the washing and I’m a little short on appropriate clobber which has taken me an age to find, so seldom do I wear my bright orange, high viz sweatshirt.

So, I’m finally dressed and head off to work late. I spend most of the day rushing round trying to catch up and when the last job is done I realise I’ve still not had a coffee yet.

I know. I’ll take the dog for a walk, get a coffee from BP and drink it while I’m walking him round the park.

And thus, within 30 minutes George The Dog and I have driven to the servo, picked up my coffee and now we’ve arrived at our local park.

I get out of the car, coffee in hand and put it on the roof as George goes through his usual, quivering with excitement and can’t wait to jump out of the car routine.

If you have an excitable dog yourself you’ll know what I mean.

Anyway, I get the jumbled avalanche of dog out of the car, slip his lead onto his collar and we’re all set. Just as I reach for my coffee on the roof of the car George jerks the lead and my hand knocks the cup over.

You guessed it. For the second time that day a cup of chocolately mochaccino throws itself all over the front of my clothing. This time it’s my bright orange, hi-viz sweatshirt.

Eventually I get home and throw the sweatshirt in the washing machine with the other sodden clothes from the morning.

I’m about to put it on when Mrs P rings for a quick catch-up.

“No, it’s not been a great day,” I say, without a full explanation other than to say I have missed her excellent coffee before and after work.

Thankfully she had a solution.

Apparently to make it all better I should just go down the road and get myself a nice coffee from the BP Wild Bean.