Every day I pay somebody £3 to make me a coffee that I could quite easily do at home, were it not for the frothy milk.
Frothy milk is the secret of our national coffee obsession, the addictive fuel for which we keep afloat those tax-avoiding generic coffee chains with their generic faux leather sofas and their ambient down-lighting, the smell of generic Arabica beans over-roasting in the skillet. Every day I pay somebody £3 to froth my milk before slopping it into a paper cup with my name scrawled wrong on its irritatingly flimsy side that will almost definitely burn my hands should I walk at a pace compensating for the time I lost queuing at Over-Roasted Arabica Beans R Us.
Have you ever noticed the cups require a separate piece of corrugated cardboard to be slid over their middle to stop one from singeing off one’s thumbprints? Doesn’t that seem ridiculous? Why don’t they just build that bit into the cup and save separate production and shipping costs?
I do love that frothy milk, though.