I ventured and gained: nothing mind you, but still. Trial by coffee…

A life without adventure is likely to be unsatisfying, but a life in which adventure is allowed to take whatever form it will is sure to be short.

Bertrand Russell 

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Every now and then I get this craving for really good coffee— which wouldn’t be quite so torrid if the fridge wasn’t sporting some. Some days it practically spits it at me whilst endorsing the stuff at the same time; teasing me with breath so chilled it’s clearly a word of lost participles. It was being particularly unpleasant only the other evening, as I attempted to locate the cheese for a good strumming:

‘Hey treacle’ It said, ‘you look tired. Go on— make some— you know you want to…’

But since my cafeteria fell foul of complications due to wear and tear— the fridge gets torn into with the more industrial side of my language. It’s hardly civilised, but since I managed to get it to talk to the toaster— I’m afraid it’s become a little lippy!

Being without a vessel for your beans is monstrous you see, and the fridge knows this— it’s like trying to drive a car with no steering wheel. Today though, I just couldn’t be restrained.

So I buckled up and found a saucepan which was too small and filled it up with a too large a sprinkling of coffee; administered too great a volume of water; used a grind catcher designed for fewer granules whilst pouring into my inadequate mug, which was too close to the edge of the work surface— which allowed me the oppotunity to determine exactly how not absorbent enough the kitchen towel was to pick up the dribbles; the mug not large enough to entertain my drink; the catcher had butter-fingers, over-flew and trickled over everything; leaving me with a hard fought out pint of gritty coffee— and all the makings of a good clear up. All however— was not to be lost with, melancholy lost.

I found another mug of similar design and filtered the contents of the first mug into it and simply rinsed away the offending particles in the sink…

Unfortunately, my efforts were tepid and I sunk the lot in a superhero sized gulp—

Now I’m thirsty again;

Though I may apply Russian scientific principals to my labours and improve the definition of my practises…

Author: DB James

It's one of the finest things we do; write about our lives, because not only do we reveal our minds through revelations our thoughts provide us— But it gives us an incentive to be honest... It's almost impossible not to consider the value of thoughts with the fairly steady flow of them; their rudimentary worth, relevance to our lives and the importance to the people who have them. It's easy to see how distorted a thought can become when left to constant re-examination and how faceless victim/culprit dichotomies are given grounding by a name or a hover-card. If the last few weeks has demonstrated anything, it's how something as simple as a pen-stroke can release the burden and stresses they invariably cause. I've had glimpses into how fears, confessions, pains and crises can be put right by words creating deeds by changing little parts of the world. And I shouldn't be surprised: we write about things and repeat ourselves about things that have meaning to us. It keeps me humble...

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