Mary-rose maccoll Froth & bub­ble aids my toil & trou­ble

The Courier-Mail - QWeekend - - UP FRONT -

Dry July where you don't drink makes more sense to me than NaNoWriMo where you write a novel in the month by the end of the year and that's daunt­ing enough, but I think dry July might have saved I longed for sloshed Septem­ber and drunk De­cem­ber, my body likes me more when I don't drink. I sleep bet­ter. I think bet­ter.

to make cof­fee – real cof­fee with steamed milk caf­feine. I know cof­fee's another drug; any­one who dis­agrees should wait out­side the place up the street that opens at 6am and see us all lin­ing up, the trades­peo­ple and health­care work­ers and the barista told us the ma­chine wasn't work­ing, we stood there in the carpark for a few moments like a lit­tle funeral in that win­ter dawn, as if our com­bined dis­ap­point­ment might be enough to bring the dead back to life, to make the ma­chine start work­ing again.

Cof­fee may be an ad­dic­tion but it makes you feel like a mil­lion dol­lars and has no life­long harms we know of. And by the way, when we do know the harms, I don't want to be told. I re­vealed my plan to be­come a barista. Don't, they said. They'd all bought espresso ma­chines over the years, some more than one, and the poor ma­chines had wound up in the back of a cup­board or with Life­line. And why would you bother? It's

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