Coffee Mongrel

My jar of coffee is running low. It's somewhere in the middle of being obviously not enough for a cup and being just enough to make it work. I have to think this through. I could find myself with a seriously week drink or it could be one of those moments when things just fall in to place and you find yourself thinking, "You know what, life isn't that bad." I don't get those moments very often, so chances are it's the former. What do I do? Do I take the chance? Do I risk it for a biscuit (which I was eating at the time, so really didn't need to risk anything to earn that)? It took me far too long to decide. But in my life coffee plays a very important role; these things cannot be taken lightly.

Fortunately I had another jar of coffee on top of my cupboard. If things got out of hand I could just turn to that one and save myself the hassle of such pivotal decisions. But I don't like being wasteful. "A starving child in Africa would appreciate that," so my Mum would say. They probably wouldn't, Mum. They'd likely appreciate food and water more. Sending them a near empty jar of Gold Blend would be taking the piss a little bit.

With those misguided words of wisdom ringing in my mind's ear from years of having such messages crammed into my psyche I picked up the jar that the Africans would reject and began to pour it's contents into my eagerly awaiting, permanently borrowed Starbucks bug. Grain by grain the coffee trickled in; a sure fire sign you're running low when you can count them. The jar was empty. I looked into my mug... it was pretty much empty too. Oh dear. I'd taken a gamble and it hadn't paid off. I should have predicted this would happen, based on the last 20/21 years of my life when I've taken gambles and none of them have paid off either.

There was only one thing for it. The granules were already mixing in with the last remaining drips of the previous drink (I'd only just finished it, it hadn't been left out for days without me cleaning it) so it was too late for a last minute rescue job.

"Send in the marines!"

"We can't sir. They'd drown in coffee gloop."

My eyes flickered up to the new shiny jar of coffee on top of the cupboard. They noticed it was not the same brand.

I can't do this... I can't make an interracial coffee. They won't get on. There will be years of dispute and anger amongst them with lives being lost as coffee racism grows rife. More of the new coffee will begin to filter across the divide leading to some Gold Blend radicals to form groups and wear stupid hooded capes. Biscuits will stand back aghast as they see former allies turn against each other. Can I really inflict such hardship upon something I love so much?

"Stop being such a fairy and pour the coffee."

My Dad's voice now replacing that of Mum.

Thanks Dad. I pop the seal on the top of the jar; almost definitely one of the most satisfying things you can do, and spooned out (oh dear, this is turning into a terrible innuendo) some of the new race. As if in slow motion I let it drop into the mug and I heard a thousand screaming coffee children look up in horror as their Regular Blend nemesis landed on top of them.

"How could you do this to us? You bastard!"

"We thought you were one of us! We thought we had an understanding!"

"Judas! You're as bad as Ben Futcher when he moved to Boston!"

Kettle boiled, water poured, the enemies began melting in to one another. With one swift stir of a spoon their genes had become one and I'd created the coffee equivalent of a Labradoodle.

It tastes exactly like it normally does. There's no noticeable difference in any aspect of it. Yet still the guilt lies deep within me. The horror, the terror, the knowing that I was the reason behind it...the fact that I'm fast running out of milk....

Would I get over it? Yeah, probably.

Is it the most exciting part of my day? Almost definitely.