Conversations with the Coffee Machine
I grudgingly hauled myself out of bed. At the best of times I could never be described as a 'morning person'. I rubbed my eyes, and tried to force myself to wake up. How some people managed to hop out of bed full of energy and ready for the day was beyond my comprehension. I. Need. Coffee. It was September, allegedly spring had arrived, but the weather had turned cold and icy. There was an unpleasant chill in the air, and so I pulled on my gown and pushed my feet into my worn grey slippers. I padded downstairs, my slippers echoing their customary ‘sloof-sloof-sloof’, alerting His Highness the Cat that there was life in the house. Wasting no time, he took up his usual position at the glass door that lead to the garden. ‘You can wait’, I informed him, ignoring his silent demand to open the door. Instead, I made a beeline for the coffee machine. Our current brewing device was a rather intimidating silver monster. It took up most of the space on the white-grey gran...