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