Hypocrisy of the Highest Order

For years, I refused to let anything containing a drop of caffeine past my lips. I would insist on de-caff in the numerous meetings I attended and drink a punishing two litres of water a day. Now, each day begins with the brewing a large pot of Lavattza. Is this hypocrisy? Is it rebellion? No! It is the not the kick I crave, or even the taste: it is the ritual. In a largely unscheduled life where the only disciplines are self-imposed, I enjoy pouring the water precisely up to the mark, the careful measuring out of two scoops tamped down with the back of a spoon, the lighting of the gas, the warming of the milk. Then, armed mug and thermos, I have no more excuses. I must begin.