Blah blah blah coffee blah blah blah single bean…

I don’t actually mean ‘blah’. I do care. In fact, I care too much. I care about the beans, and the day dots, and whether or not the bloody thermometers are calibrated properly. But, really? All these tiny things that are slowly slurping the life out of me. I forget why I wanted to be there in the first place. I forget the personal mission, and instead of feeding off of it as I intended, I allow it to feed on me. Forget espresso extractions, we’re talking soul extractions here. And that’s not what I came for…

So here’s the deal..

I love the store. I don’t love the smelly ex-heroin addicts that sometimes dribble and slur incoherently at me, or the coughing woman that smells like death that I want to tell to leave and never come back because I can’t stand the sight or thought of their sad, capped, painful and miserably addicted existence.

I don’t love the smarmy types that genuinely think they are presenting their obviously stupid barista with the most complex of challenges when they order the quirkiest drink combination they can possibly muster. I kid you not, they chuckle to themselves as they give their order and roll their eyes at their friends as if to say…

‘I know, I’m so complicated and wonderful, and such an exquisitely complex and therefore, interesting person. I’m so difficult but you know what? Being difficult is my perogative, and I’m sure as hell going to embrace that right!’

I don’t love that in these instances I repeat the order back as though they had just simply asked for tea for one. My obvious (and purposeful) refusal to be blown away by their complicated order irritates them. They look genuinely disgruntled that I have not reaffirmed their personal complexity.

‘Haha, I’m sorry, I’m so difficult!’

Lady, you have no idea. Your drink is not difficult. It’s easy. It may have taken you near on a millenia to get it out while you are holding up a queue with your self-congratulatory giggles to your friend and speaking so slowly to me, as if I am either a) a child or b) stupid, however, what is difficult, is the reality of how painfully transparent you are.

I don’t love counting ketchup sachets. In fact, counting anything gives me the hump. I hate that whilst counting ketchup sachets, the barely audible counting becomes increasingly aggressive as I contemplate my first class degree.

Or removing a sanitary towel from the sink in the bathroom. I could get on of my staff to remove this – but that’s never going to happen, I won’t ask. I won’t ask them to do something so demeaning.. They will then think as I do. I want them empowered, not saturated to the point of drowning, by the roles they take under my watch. I want them happy and productive in their work, not thinking…

Fuck. This.
I’m better than this.
I’m wasted here.

Like I do.

But, in rare moments of clarity, I remember. I remember why I’m there.

When the extracting of my soul, self-worth, energy, and patience ceases for long enough, I remember that this is a place full of people and full of stories. It is a place where people make plans, where decisions are made, where relationships are forged and severed, where realisations are met, and progress is made over cups and glasses of self – professed simplicity or complexity.

I remember that I wanted to be amongst this. That I wanted to observe and absorb the stories of everyday people. I wanted to eaves – drop on the snippets of life that reverberate around the room amid the grinding and blending. I wanted to learn who? Why? What for? How did they come to this? Where are they going? I wanted habits and reality.

I wanted people.
I wanted stories.