Sunday, 30 October 2011

On ode to the brew.

I confessed recently that I (almost) prefer Eastenders to Coronation Street.

Now whilst some may view this as an act of shedding my Northern roots, I indefatigably disagree. I find the plots slightly more area apt now I'm a local.

This revelation has acumen.

I may prefer the Southern soap, but there's a Northern trait I cannot (& will not) shake. A brew. That gloriously emotionally charged, heart warming, honest beverage.

I dislike coffee excessively *

Saturday morning saw my heartbeat quicken, my forehead bear a bead of sweat. I'd run out of teabags.


I dislike herbal tea even more **, what's a girl to do.

Forreging around I struck gold. A chum had bought me a mug. A Moonpig mug.

Low and behold, what did it contain. A bloody brew enabler.


I silently placed my bets on the strength of the liquid it'd stir up. If a Tetleys was a 7 & a PG Tip an 8.5 I estimated Moonpig would be a 2.75.

I overestimated. It was a 2.

Still, my morning quota was par-filled & I could function.

Whilst I do not feel they should go into mass production, the bag certainly helped me out when my chips were down.

The 'Caf' can stick its lattes & cappuccinos. I'd choose 'Roys Rolls' - morning, noon & night.

* Bar coffee flavoured Roses, which seem to have been discontinued.
** all forms. BLEUGH.

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