The problem with me giving up coffee is that I’ve got this thing for my coffee machine.
The machine and I have one of those troubled histories – one of those ones that makes for a great sitcom season or two, you know? Started out hating each other; hate turned to dislike; dislike became ambivalence; there was an especially comedic period in which we traded witty insults but secretly began to admit our mutal regard; and then slowly we openly started to warm to each other.
Mr A presented me with the machine as a present celebrating our second wedding anniversary.
I was horrified. It looked like scenery from some terribly low-budget TV series set in space (what is it with my TV similes today? I don’t know).
These guys need a coffee.
This beast is grey – like, eighties grey; grey like a pair of zip-up loafers your dad wore to work when you were six. With magenta accents. It’s called (wait for it) … The Vienna.
In all its glory:
It’s like, a cubic metre of second-hand plastic. (You think we could afford this much technology new?? Who do you think we are, John and Bronagh Key?) Here’s a close-up of that magnificent logo:
SUPER automatica. Faux Europeanism – in Europe! (We are actually only 70 km from the real Vienna)
And when I stumble out of the bedroom and into the kitchen at 6.30 am for that necessary fix, it whispers to me:
I think that stronger women than I have probably fallen.
That jawline! Fifty Shades of Grey indeed.
Daisy
