If I was a rich girl

Tonight's Euromillion lottery jackpot is 66 million pounds. That's almost 100 million euro. That's almost 130 million US dollars. That's over 150 million Canadian dollars. That's over 160 million Australian dollars. That's 15,658 million Japanese Yen.

That's a lot of money.

And, it's not a roll-over which means that even if nobody gets all of the numbers drawn tonight, the prize will roll down to the next winning ticket. Someone tonight is winning £66 million.

But I don't play the lottery...

...until now! Damn right I bought a ticket! 66 million squid! Woo hoo!

I bought my tickets on Tuesday (and don't worry; I didn't go mad and spend all my savings on tickets. I just bought four) and since then I've been having the "what would you do if you won?" conversation with practically everyone. I mean, 66 million is a lot of money. I'm not one of those people who goes around saying "Oh, no, I wouldn't like to win that much. That's too much money! No, I'd be happy with just a million."

Wankers.

A million will buy you diddly squat nowdays. Well, relatively speaking, of course.

No, I want the full whack. But, what to do with it all?

I think I'd take the first six million and just be silly. I'd buy myself a big ol' house back home near my parents in Ireland, and another one near Exeter, my favourite part of the UK. That's probably about 2 million gone (house prices are crazy over here), including the cost of furnishing both houses, etc. I'd also treat myself to a swanky villa in the south of France and another one in Italy, and maybe (i.e., definately) a ski chalet in Whistler. That's probably about 1.5 million, again including buying all the gear required (bikinis and skis). The next thing I'd do is buy myself a decent car. I quite fancy that Toyota Prius because it looks alright, and it's environmentally friendly. Just 'cause I'm rich doesn't mean I can't be globally aware ;)

After that, I think I'd take some time off and bring my family and close friends away on a much needed and deserved holiday. It would have to be someplace secret because you can't win that amount of money and live a normal life. Remember what happened that Irish woman who won €150 million back in 2005? No? Well, after she picked up her massive cheque, she and her family had to go into hiding as there had been kidnapping threats made against her son, and other assorted madness.

Obviously, whoever wins tonight will be subject to intense media and other unwanted attention.

So, eventually, when it's safe to return, there's still the question of the remaining £60 million. Obviously I'd give my parents a big wad of cash to pay their mortgage and basically ensure they want for nothing for the rest of their lives. Similarily, the rest of my family would get a nice little nest egg. And my closest friends would not be left wanting. Let's say that's another ten million taken care of.

That's £50 million left.

Next, I'd like to give a large amount of my winnings to charity. But, again, who do you donate it to? I'd probably give a million each to the charities that I already donate monthly to, namely, Médecins Sans Frontiers and the RSPCA. I'd give a million each to the NSPCC, and To Russia With Love charities. I'd also like to donate money to the campaign to raise awareness of AIDS in Africa and the campaign to build schools for girls in Afghanistan, amongst others. There are so many charities out there that it's difficult to know where to send your money, regardless of how much money you have. So, when I can donate money, I donate it to charities that I know make an actual difference.

That would probably leave me with about £35-£40 million, depending on how charitable I felt. And all of that would go into the bank until I could figure out what to do with it. I'd like to use some of it towards helping raise awareness of global climate change, but I'd have to do a bit more research into that to see how best the money could be spent.

So... with my £35 million or so sitting in the bank, the burning question is: do I go back to work?

I had a long discussion with Mairead about this on the phone last night (that's how seriously I take my blogs! *ahem*). The thing is that I would definately have to keep working in some capacity or other. I mean, I'm only 28 years old. I've got a lot of life ahead of me. And, sure, I'd like to take some time out to go travelling and visit all those places I've never been to before (like Cornwall, for example). But I could only do that for so long before I'd probably get bored.

And then there's the other factor: I actually like my job. Sure, I'm not overly thrilled about my current job location, but the actual work itself... I really enjoy it! And I think I'd like to continue doing it. I've worked damn hard to get where I am today, and I slaved over a hot PhD for three years, and I'm a bit reluctant to just throw that all away because I no longer need the pay cheque.

Unfortunately for me, I don't yet have enough experience to go and work for a larger/better/different company, regardless of how much money I might have. And I certainly don't have enough experience to set up my own company. So... it looks like I'd have to stay where I am for another year or so. But, as Mairead cunningly pointed out last night, on those mornings when it's dark and cold and wet outside and I really, really, really don't want to go into work but I have to in order to earn money to pay the bills... if I was £35 odd million richer, would I still go into work on those days?

I don't know if I would.

---

It remains to be seen. The draw is in an hour and a half. If I can put down the champagne for a moment later on, I'll update this and let you know how it goes. I'm not expecting to win anything at all, but you never know!

---

Topic: What would you spend the money on if you won £66 million?

---

*Update* I didn't win. Boo! Hiss! Same again next week?

Confessions of a one-handed typist

We're all guilty of it.

Schadenfreude, that is.

"Satisfaction or pleasure felt at someone else's misfortune" according to dictionary.com.

Even the kindest, most warm-heartest, most love-to-pet-fluffy-puppies-on-the-head-whilst-simultaneously-kissing-babies-and-giving-money-to-charity do-gooders amongst us can't help but smirk just a little bit when we see the prick in the Mercedes get done for speeding.

It's human nature to have a little giggle, isn't it?

And there's no shortage of schadenfreude in my life.

This morning, my colleague, the new girl (NG for short), came into my office, bolted the door and said "Oh God! I need to talk to you!"

My interest piqued by the urgency and distress in her voice, I swivelled around in my chair and asked what was up. Thence flowed forth a litany of grief to which I nodded my head sagely and uttered condolences, for her aggrevations were all too familiar to me.

Some of you know that, when I started in my current job just under a year and a half ago, I was very unhappy. It was the usual problem - the combination of bad pay, a high workload and an incompetent boss. Happily, my situation has now changed. I'm still in the same job, and the pay is only slightly better, whilst the workload and moronic boss remain the same. But I recently went through a somewhat introspective stage and I sat down and had a good hard think about it all and emerged feeling more positive and happier about the whole thing. I realised that it is entirely up to me to make the best of this situation, to learn as much as I can, and then to move on to bigger and better things. And once you've gotten your head around that, it makes it a hell of a lot easier to get up in the morning, let me tell you.

Anyhoo, NG had been to her first client meeting with the boss yesterday and by the time she got home last night she was wondering if she had actually gone mad. Her litany of complaints ranged from the boss treating her like a secretary in front of the clients to him telling her she should be out scouting for new business by herself but then telling her she's not capable of working on her own and that she needs to be part of the team.

She ended on a Mugatu note - "I feel like I'm taking crazy pills! Is it just me or is he completely unreasonable?!"

Unfortunately, it was all too familiar to me, for you see this time last year, I was asking the exact same question. I knew that the way he was acting was unreasonable (piling on the work until I thought I was going to have a nervous breakdown; calling me on weekends to ask where files were; calling me at midnight on Sunday night to tell me I had to travel to a meeting at 6:30am Monday morning; making sexist jokes about me in front of clients; treating me like a secretary in front of clients; butting into conversations with clients just so he could try to prove he was smarter than me, and so on ad naseum), and yet, at the same time, I began to wonder if it was just me who was being naive or stupid or overexpectant.

The problem with dealing with people who have no organisational, management or people skills is that, if they come across as utterly confident in themselves, and refuse to change despite the many subtle and later blatent hints you give them, eventually you start to think that maybe the problem lies with you. Maybe you're being intolerant?

So, I sat NG down and explained to her that the problem is not with her. That the problem is indeed with the boss. After all, he's A Boss, isn't he? And we all know what they're like...

I also explained that, after a while, your bullshit-filter becomes more fine-tuned and you learn to disregard the 99% of crap that comes out of a boss' mouth, and to digest and analyse the important 1% that comprises actual useful information.

"Unfortunately," I told her, "it takes time, but you will eventually get to the stage where you don't feel like stabbing him in the neck with a pencil every time he opens his mouth. It's a slow process, but at least you're not alone. I didn't have anyone to talk to about this last year, so count your blessings! I feel your pain and I'm available for a bitching session any time!"

As I sent her on her way, I couldn't help but feel a little smidgen of satisfaction. It's nice to know that NG feels the same way I did this time last year because it means that I wasn't imagining it or making a mountain out of a molehill. This time last year, I felt so alone and frustrated because I had no one to talk to about this. I was the only girl working for the company, and the other guys had been here too long and were too attuned to the boss to be able to comiserate. Sure, I could talk about it with my beau, my friends and my family, but I always got the feeling they thought I was blowing things out of proportion a bit because some of the things my boss did or said were so outlandish. So, I felt like I was going stir crazy.

Now that I've seen the light at the end of the tunnel, I know that NG will be fine in the long run, but there's a little part of me that still enjoys seeing her frustration because it makes mine a little more valid.

Does that make me a bad person?

--

If my boss is reading this, then of course none of this is true. It's all made up. And exaggerated, grossly, for entertainment and comedic effect. It might be best if you forget you ever read this.

--

I apologise in retrospect for any typos in this blog. I'm typing this with one hand because last night I sliced my middle finger on my left hand whilst I was chopping vegetables for dinner. So much for trying to be healthy. The damn thing bled all night and, in fact, I think it's still bleeding now. Actually, I feel kinda woozy...

Once more 'round the block

My middle name should be Procrastinator. I'm "working" from home today but I have about as much motivation as a dead goldfish floating in putrid, month-old water. Nice image, eh?

Anyhoo, whilst waiting for the plumber to fix my washing machine, I decided to have a go at writing some daft haikus. Here's what I've got so far...

--

Washing machine dead
Plumber says not his problem
Clothes remain unwashed.

--

Postman here early
More bills for my perusal
Should have gone to work.

--

Report lies unwritten
Motivation is awol
What's on the TV?

--

Kitchen is in ruins
Plastic piping everywhere
No water for tea.

--

Plumber says "finished!"
I'm gasping for a coffee
I push him aside.

--

Caffeine hits my brain
Inspiration is still lost
I give up on work.

--

Hmmm....

I still don't feel like doing anything. And now the plumber's gone so I can't even blame the noise disturbance for my lack of action anymore.

Suppose I should at least open Word...

Philistine or Pedant?

I'd like to preface this blog by saying that I adore art. I don't know a whole lot about it, but I adore it. I love visiting galleries and museums and spending the day wandering amongst artwork, regardless of whether it's three hundred years old or three years old. I've had the immense pleasure of standing in front of original works by Botticelli and Caravaggio, as well as Blake and Lowry. However, I've recently discovered a slight internal problem that may well ruin my enjoyment of art forever.

Let me explain...

In March 2006, I had the good fortune to be invited to spend a few days in Florence with Mairead, her parents and her aunt. I didn't need to be asked twice. I'd always wanted to visit Italy and I'd heard that Firenze is one of the most beautiful cities in Italia, as well as being the bithplace of the Italian Renaissance and the hometown of the art-loving Medici family. Well, I'd be a fool to turn that down, wouldn't I?

Oh yeah, and I'd also get to spend five days with my best friend doing what we do best - drinking coffee, sipping wine, sitting in the sun and commenting on the talent walking past. It's a good life!

Anyhoo, Mairead and I arranged to meet in Pisa on the Friday night, which we did. Exhausted after our respective full day's work, flights, travel to the hotel, etc., we got ourselves checked in and set out to find someplace that could offer us a nice glass of Italian vino. Wandering around the streets near the hotel, we turned a corner and were faced with the leaning tower in all its magnificent glory.

Most of the time, when you see pictures of the tower, it looks something like this:

i.e., surrounded by tourists all yabbering away and making silly poses in front of the tower. However, due to the fact that it was around about midnight, the Campo dei Miracoli was completely deserted, allowing us to drink in the sight of this beautiful marble structure in peace. It was a beautiful night and the white tower and incredible Baptistry beside it looked almost painted onto the clear, navy blue sky behind. When we got back to the hotel (with a couple of bottles of red), we realised that we had a perfect view of the tower from the balcony in Mairead's room. As we sat and drank our wine and chatted, every now and then we would wander over to the balcony and just stare at the magnificent view. It was hypnotic.

Anyhoo, that's not the point of this story.

So, the next day we hopped on the train and made our merry (if slightly hungover) way to Firenze. Mairead's dad met us off the train, hustled us along to the hotel to drop off our bags and then rushed us over to the Uffizi where Mairead's mum and aunt were waiting for us, tickets in hand, to go explore one of the most incredible art museums in the world. The Uffizi houses a stunning collection of artwork and sculptures that would take days to investigate thoroughly. However, and now we're getting closer to the point of the story, as we wandered through the rooms, being bombarded from all sides by incredible works of art, we found ourselves becoming more and more blasé about what we were seeing. Our conversation rapidly degenerated from: "Wow! Look at this one! God, that's incredible! Look at the detail!" and: "Bloody hell! That must have taken years to finish!" to: "Oh, look.... another painting of the Madonna and child. Nice." and: "Hmmm...... sensing a slight obsession with religion here...." eventually, two hours later, to: "What's in there? More religious crap? Ah, let's skip it."

I mean, there's only so much of this you can take in at any one time:

Nice paintings, but after about two hundred of 'em, you get a bit overloaded.

Eventually, we got to the good stuff, but even then, we were beyond redemption. About three hours after entering the museum, we arrived in the Botticelli room, and saw the absolutely astounding Birth of Venus:

To say I was awestruck in the presence of this painting would be an understatement. I mean, the thing is huge! It would be difficult to not be impressed by it. And Venus is absolutely beautiful, as you can see. But... then I noticed that... well, Botticelli is a bit rubbish at painting feet. If you look at the feet of the two angels on the left, they look a bit weird. And Venus herself looks as if she's been a victim of Chinese foot binding. As for the wave-effect on the water - seriously, I could do better than that.

With my eyes closed.

And my arms hacked off.

And no lips with which to steady the paintbrush.

But, then, maybe I was just still pissed off about the billions of religious paintings I'd just had to wade through. So, we continued on. I'm happy to say that by the time we reached Botticelli's Primavera, he'd gotten much better at painting toes, which is strange because Venus was actually painted after Primavera.

Anyway...

We carried on throughout the rest of the musem, including an exhibition on the life and works of Leonardo da Vinci (more on this in a moment), and by the time we left, many, many hours later, we had been rendered pretty much speechless by the sheer talent we had witnessed inside. To think these were painted hundreds of years ago... wow! Luckily, a couple of glasses of wine later and speech had returned full force, although slightly slurred.

The next day, we made our way along to the Accademia to see Michelangelo's David:

Breathtaking. Absolutely stunning, from every angle. The fact that the statue is 17 feet tall makes it impressive by itself, but the attention to detail is what makes it for me. Not only can you see every rippling muscle in this beautiful example of the male form, but Michelangelo even carved out cuticles on the hands of the statue. Incredible.

And then we noticed.... aren't his hands and feet a bit.... out of proportion? In fact, is it just me or is his head kind of huge*?

Goddamnit.

Why were we suddenly noticing these things? Why were we suddenly looking at beautiful pieces of art created hundreds of years ago by world class masters, and only able to see the flaws? Personally, I blame Leonardo da Vinci. You see, in the Uffizi, we had visited a special exhibition entitled "The Mind of Leonardo - The Universal Genius at Work" in which there were presentations about the rules of geometry and proportion that Leonardo applied to all of his art. He explained how all of nature conforms, naturally, to these rules, and how they can be applied to create absolutely perfect works of art. Take, for example, the famous Vitruvian Man:

Leondardo's drawing displays the exact proportions of the average or ideal man. Whilst there is no such thing as universal proportions for the human body ("We're all individuals!"), I really like this idea of logically and systematically creating the perfect being. I like to think of myself as a logical person (most of the time), and so this idea sits well with me. Unfortunately, I think a result of this is that I've become very pedantic when viewing art. I've become a major fan of perspective and proportion, and I find it difficult to enjoy art that doesn't employ these two rules.

Picasso wrecks my head.

So, when viewing the statue of David, with his disproportionate hands, feet and head, I couldn't help but wonder am I being a complete philistine, standing here in front of one of the most superb works of art in the world and pointing out its flaws, or am I merely being pedantic in my persuit of beauty and thus unable to accept anything less than perfection?

Will I ever be able to fully enjoy art again**?!?

...

...

[End]

 

* I've since found out that: "The proportions (of the statue of David) are not quite true to the human form; the head and upper body are somewhat larger than the proportions of the lower body. While some have suggested that this is of the mannerist style, the most commonly accepted explanation is that the statue was originally intended to be placed on a church façade or high pedestal, and that the proportions would appear correct when the statue was viewed from some distance below." -- source: Wikipedia

** Claire has since gone on to enjoy many lovely works of art, most of which have not been proportionally correct, so one must presume that the answer to this question is: "Yes."

Woe is me - A self-pitying, melodramatic Wednesday whinge

I'm ill.

My head has been stuffed with cotton wool, lead and helium, which is an interesting, yet wholly undesireable feeling.

My eyes are still full of hot sand.

My throat has had the insides scraped out and rubbed vigorously with salt & vinegar resulting in an altogether very unsexy croaky voice.

My neck and shoulders have been encased in concrete, restricting every movement I make and weighing me down so that I feel that little bit closer to hell with every minute that ticks by.

Hi Satan!

My lower back throbs with a dull yet persistant ache that makes me want to strap a hot water bottle on there and curl up into the feotal position until it's time to die.

My limbs feel like they've just run ten marathons back to back whilst scrubbing red wine stains out of a white shirt using an old fashioned washboard, soap that won't lather and very hard and cold water.

My body temperature swings unpredictably between unbearably hot and shivering cold, meaning that I'm constantly either ripping off jumpers or frantically trying to wrap them around me again to retain some semblance of warmth.

I'm tired, yet I can't sleep.

So I'm at work.

"Shouldn't you be at home?" I hear you say.

"Yes," I reply. "Yes I should. I was at home all day yesterday and I should have stayed there again today."

So, why didn't I?

Because I got bored, that's why. That's how ill I actually am. I got bored. I couldn't go outside because the weather was too cold and shitty. So I stayed inside all day. Our Internets isn't working because of some problem with the line. I hate daytime TV. I finished reading The Historian (fantastic book - Mozz, give it another go, seriously) and need some time to digest that one before I can pick up any other. I've watched all the DVDs in the house. I've read all the newspapers and magazines. By 8pm last night, I was climbing the walls. And then I got bored of doing that! I'm restless and I can't concentrate long enough on any one thing to relieve the boredom.

Today, when I woke up, I found out that we don't even have TV anymore because a rather horrible hail storm last night has done something funny to our connection. No Internets and no TV make Claire go crazy.

So, instead of staying at home and developing a nice case of cabin fever, I decided to go to work. Might as well get paid for being bored shitless, right?

*sniffle*

*cough*

Should have brought my duvet...

Another day, another dollar

Claire awoke with a start after what seemed like only minutes of sleep. She looked around the room which was barely lit by a shaft of grey winter light filtering through a chink in the heavy curtains. Outside the rain battered the window and the wind howled mercilessly, slamming a nearby door against a wall - the cause of last night's insomnia. Where...? Ah yes, the hotel. Still in Sheffield then.

She reached out and silenced the alarm that had woken her, and rubbed her gritty eyes that felt as though they had been filled with hot sand. Time to get up? Maybe just five more minutes of rest. Last night's late dinner still lying heavily in the pit of her stomach, she lay back against the once-luxurious but now almost threadbare sheets and closed her tired eyes, praying for sleep to swallow her whole and deliver her into a blissful slumber that would last for days. She couldn't remember the last time she had been this tired.

The alarm started screeching again, signalling the end of the five-minute snooze period. With an exasperated sigh, she silenced the alarm again and flicked the switch on the wall by the bed, flooding the room with harsh, unnatural light. A searing pain filled her head, as though someone had just rammed a picaxe through her eyeballs. "I hate mornings," she thought to herself as she threw back the covers and shuffled out of bed with all the grace of a lame donkey.

The shower ran cold for approximately seven minutes. Just as she had given up, about to resign herself to a day of smelling like last night's cigarette smoke, the water began to gain a little warmth - not enough to be theraputic but enough to make standing underneath it for ten minutes bearable. As she half-heartedly rubbed shampoo into her hair, she pondered what today's training session would bring. The eighteen students has so far been significantly more unresponsive than expected.

She rinsed the shampoo from her hair, and added a generous dollop of conditioner, massaging it in as she contemplated. Was it because of language difficulties? Cultural differences? There were only about four native English speakers in the group. Maybe they didn't understand Jamie's lectures? Maybe they'd be more communicative on this second day of the course, now that they knew what to expect. She hoped so. The long drawn out silence after that dreaded query - "Any questions?" - was beginning to grate on her nerves.

Whatever happened, she hoped today would go a little faster than yesterday, which had seemed to drag on for three years. She rinsed the conditioner from her hair, and switched off the stream of lukewarm water. She towelled off, dressed, fixed her hair and makeup and made a final check in the mirror. "Another day, another dollar," she told her reflection, as she picked up her umbrella.. "Maybe I'll suggest a warmer climate for next year's course."

---

So, yes, I'm still in Sheffield. And, yes, that is an accurate reflection of my experience of waking up in hell this morning, after approximately two hours' sleep. It's not so much that I'm in Sheffield that's making me slightly less than enthusiastic. Rather, it's that I'm in Sheffield in a sort of crummy hotel, with horrible, rainy, windy, cold weather outside, attending and helping out with a course that, whilst interesting, is a lot of hard work - back to back lectures from 9am 'till 5pm - and then drawn-out dinners that go on well into the night, leaving me exhausted yet unable to sleep as my body attempts to digest.

*whinge whinge whinge*

I know, I know. It could be a lot worse. I could be working in a coal mine, hundreds of feet below ground, relying on a canary to tell me when to get the fuck out because I'm about to suffocate. I could be working in a paddy field, spending day after day with damp feet, bent over as I harvest rice and get paid a pittance for the privilage of doing so.

Goddamnit, I could be an accountant!

It's not so bad. At least me and the new girl are getting to spend some time together - she's cool. We also have a lady visiting us from Brazil who is super fantastic and very witty.

And, best of all, there's only one and a half days to go...

However, watching this continuously does make it more bearable!

This year I have mostly been injecting caffeine

Hello. My name is Claire and I am a fresly brewed coffeholic. I don't even know if that's a real word but it sounds damn good to me.

Over Christmas I decided that I'm (temporarily, at least) done with alcohol. In the dying months of 2006 I've suffered some mind-cripplingly god-awful rather-rip-out-my-own-intestines-and-hang-myself-with-them-than-go-through-that-again horrible hangovers. The kind of hangovers that see you hugging the cool porcelain into the wee hours, begging for someone to kill you just to end the misery. The kind of hangovers that make Rent Boy's heroin comedown look like a teddy bear's picnic.

"Well," I hear you say. "What do you expect after a three-day whiskey & wine bender? Tut, tut, blackie. For shame. For shame."

But that's the thing, you see. I haven't been going on three-day whiskey & wine benders. I haven't been drinking 'till the cows come home and I've forgotten my own name. These gut-wrenching hangovers haven't been the result of sitting in fields with hippies drinking White Lightening and poitín whilst looking for clouds shaped like sheep.

No, I'm nowhere near that cool.

I now get a three-day hangover after just a couple of glasses of wine. In fact, I'm convinced that the severity and length of my hangover is directly proportional to the number of glasses of wine I've had the night before.

1 glass of wine = mild headache and general feeling of crappiness for 1 day afterwards.
2 glasses of wine = dwarves drilling in my head and stomach churning for 2 days afterwards.
3 glasses of wine = orcs pounding on my head with a sledgehammer whilst I pray to God on the big white telephone for 3 days afterwards.
4 glasses of wine = Goodnight Vienna.

Ok, maybe I've exaggerated a bit, but you get the general picture.

I'm broken.

I don't know how it's happened, but I think I've broken something inside. And this fear of hangover is what's kept me relatively sober this Christmas. Sure, I've enjoyed a couple of glasses of vino and maybe a Bailey's or two with friends and family, but in the two weeks of holidays there are only two nights where my memory of getting to bed is a little fuzzy.

So what did I do with myself on those other nights out when I couldn't face alcohol?

I drank coffee.

Lots and lots of coffee.

As a result, I haven't slept properly in two weeks. I am seriously sleep deprived. But it's worth it because I have come to the conclusion that I LOVE COFFEE. I love it with all my squishy red blood-pumping apparatus. I love the smell of it. I love the taste of it. I love how it looks in my cup or in a glass. I love the different varieties. I love cappucinos and lattes and mochas and americanos (but not espressos - I'm not a savage). But mostly I love how coffee makes me feel. I love the rush. The caffeine high. The rare hour of clarity immediately after I've taken that first hit of the day. The abundance of ideas that suddenly come charging forward begging for my attention. The urge to write or paint or run or sing - anything to make use of this manic energy before it disappears and I'm left with the jitters.

After two weeks of drinking coffee almost exclusively, I'm hooked. And like any proper junkie, I need to get some proper gear to feed my habit. Whilst flicking through a catalogue (at twenty pages per second), I came across this and nearly creamed myself:

It's not particularly expensive and it's probably not the best one out there, but this is the machine of my dreams. It's got a ten-cup capacity, a fastbrew option that brews the coffee in eight minutes, it's got a six-espresso-cup capacity, it's got a milk frother thingie, and it's shiny and black and got chrome bits... Sorry, I need a moment.

*sigh*

I want it.

And I'm going to get it. If it's the last thing I do, I'm going to get that dream machine!

You see, I don't currently own any coffee making apparatus. Other than a kettle, a cup and a spoon, of course. Which means that I am reduced to drinking instant shite unless I can get myself to a café. And, from Monday to Friday, between the hours of about 8am and 7pm, I cannot get myself to a café because, you see, I work in the middle of nowehere:

I work somewhere behind those trees. See? Middle of nowhere. There are no cafés nearby. Certainly no Starbucks (I hate the corporate empire which is slowly but surely taking over the world - they now have Starbucks in Ireland for Christ's sake, the last defence has been broken - but, oh, how I love their coffee!). And so I am reduced to bringing instant coffee with me to work. And we hates it my preciousssss.

This is what I drink at work:

Crappucino.

"Now with delicious Suchard topping!"

What the hell is "Suchard"? It doesn't even look like chocolate, let alone taste like chocolate!

Still, beggars can't be choosers. So, when I get into work in the morning, I pour myself a nice crappucino and pretend it tastes like coffee:

But I long for a dream machine like the one above. I long for real coffee that's been percolated properly with water that's hot but not boiling. I long for steamed, frothy milk, not powdered, sickly-sweet muck. I long to be able to do this with my coffee:

How nice do those coffees look? Tasty! Pretty! Warm! All the things I like! I want those!

The new girl brought a cafetière into work whilst I was away over Christmas. I saw it on her desk this morning. I'm waiting for her to brew some of the good stuff so I can blag a cup. But I fear she may do it in secret for she knows how much I love real coffee and knows that I'll just drink all of hers and leave her with the nasty bitter grinds at the end and then she'll never get rid of me!!! Arrrgghhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ok, I've officially got the jitters. And the paranoia. Time to go drink some water.