Today I think I’m going to break my all time world record; I’ve just discovered cold coffee number four. Out of five coffees made by me this fair morning, only one made it to my lips.
Stinky nappies always come in pairs in my house, and they always come just as I’m clutching my steaming mug of caffeine and about to have five minutes on the sofa. By the time I’ve changed two boys, taken the offending items to the bin outside, stopped the boys from eating the batteries in the remote control and then answered the phone to some sales person promising me a new kitchen for free, 20 minutes has elapsed and said coffee has long since been forgotten about as it sits hidden on a shelf out of reach of sticky fingers.
It’s ok when you remember your coffee and find it’s still tepid – you can just zap it in the microwave for 30 seconds and it’s as good as new. (Usually when I go to put it in the microwave there is an ancient cup in there left by Hubby as he never drinks a coffee that hasn’t been reheated.) But when you leave it for too long and that thin layer of gunky film spreads across the top there is no redeeming it. So the kettle goes on again, in goes the soya milk (alright I’m just as allergic as my picky-and-allergic-to-everything son) and the whole process starts over.
At which point a waft of poo drifts towards me and I realise that I probably won’t be able to drink a hot cup of coffee before their eighteenth birthday.