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Spooked by bean counters and plunged into paranoia

July 4 2003
By Rachel Berger

There's a nasty gaping hole in my life that's directing my feet to the gloomy side of the street. COFFEE - I'm trying to give it up. No, I have given it up!

The coffee jar sits empty of its contents inside the fridge door looking up at me like a soon-to-be-dumped lover. "I suppose you already have plans for tonight?" The plunger moans. It brings a lump to my throat, but that's probably because I've been sucking on Chux paper towels for three days. Every time I try to give up my addiction, I take the same bumpy ride on the road to Withdrawal Town.

There's no Twelve Step program, no coffee-busters group, no Caf-Anon, there's nothing; just headaches so intense that my expression bears a striking resemblance to a demented sphinx-like monument.

I've tried decaffeinated coffee, forget it; it tastes like wet socks. And the herbal dandelion-dust-in-a-sealed tin gives me a nosebleed. Why bother having caffeine if it doesn't make you shake all over and talk everyone around you into a fever. "Blah blah blah. Yada blah, yada blah blah. Could I have another long black please?"

I don't really give a wombat's haemorrhoid about what coffee does to my gall bladder, my skin or the colour of my teeth. I'm into adrenaline; I'm a comedian, it's what pays the bills. The problem is coffee attitude; not a day goes by without a cafe skirmish. Usually with the Aproned-One, who's having a complacency attack behind the cappuccino machine. "Can I have a ham and cheese toasted sandwich please?" I request fearfully.

The Apron responds in a tone that makes me feel like I should be at home weaving a basket: "The milk bar's next door, we don't do toast, only Turkish bread focaccias."

"Fine. I'll have a toasted Turkish bread focaccia with ham and cheese and a coffee."

"What sort of coffee?"


"I don't really give a wombat's haemorrhoid about what coffee does to my gall bladder, my skin or the colour of my teeth. I'm into adrenaline ..."

"Full cream, skinny, biodynamic, homogenised, rice or soya?"

"Asp's milk."

"We don't do that."

"The milk bar does! You should try it. Experts agree, it lowers the level of drivel in your saliva."

At other times, sitting at a bench-top barely wide enough to horizontally place a knife on, I'm hemmed in by a clutch of businessmen who are present but simultaneously online to somewhere else. Their phones never stop yelping. Each one with its own teeth-gnashing footy-club anthem. I can't help overhearing their conversation. "Income planning . . . blah . . . retire comfortably . . . rollover . . . blah . . . nurture assets . . . bottom line."

They know how to schmooze. Without any request, The Apron slinks over to their table with coffees and non-profit mini muffins. Their dialogue curdles my moisturiser.

A trio of women in white hats park their Volvo in the middle of the road and stroll in for tea and scones.

"Norma dear, you've just poured that Darjeeling into my handbag."

"Sorry love, I thought it was Earl Grey."

One of the finance Barrys stubs his tooth on a chocolate chip, loses the grip on his Nokia and it lands in Norma's strawberry jam.

"Blowflies are early this year Betty," Norma says, spraying scone crumbs all over herself.

"Big ones, too," purrs Betty.

The Suit leans over and tries to stealthily retrieve his phone. Betty gets to it first and points the sticky-end towards him. "What's your problem, afraid to get your hands dirty?" She giggles.

The thing that's missing from most cafes these days is that home-away-from-home familiarity. Where are the silver-haired continental men in cardigans sucking an espresso to make it through to lunchtime? What happened to sticky couples licking each other's spoons? Where is the aspiring Pulitzer Prize winning author, slumped in the corner scribbling notes to himself on a paper napkin? They've disappeared into the safety of their homes, so that we're left only with the monotonous chirping of colonised insects.

When did we stop meeting for coffee and start doing coffee? Probably the same time we stopped talking and started negotiating. Around the time a disaster transformed into a challenge, and a huge error of judgement suddenly became an opportunity !

The new ASIO bill is not about interrogation; just a kind of "meet and greet" to find out what you and I might know, so that ASIO can learn about stuff before it happens. You can't bring your friends and family to this Get Together and, you can only call a lawyer who shops at the same delicatessen as they do. Who needs a lawyer? I'd be requesting a hair and make-up person so that I look great for the seven days I'm going to be detained, sorry, entertained - by people whose identity is top secret! Is this for real or another government-funded Multi-Media Interpretive Dance installation? I need to give up caffeine; it's making me paranoid.



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