I AM A HOT BEVERAGE WHORE. WHAT ARE YOU?

I am a hot beverage whore. Today I have had a cup of tea for breakfast, (no, that is not normal, I had to have a blood test so they cruelly told me I couldn’t eat beforehand) a cappuccino with what became my breakfast at 11.30am, a cup of tea when I got home, another cup of tea later on because someone else was making one, then a cup of coffee because it was 5pm which means alcoholic-beverage-o’clock. But that was in the old days. In this new life I’m a breastfeeding mother so I’m not meant to drink.

Bo-ring.

My friends have a friend who is not a hot beverage whore. In fact, he is a hot liquid hater. He will not swallow anything that is a hot liquid. And that includes melted cheese. He orders pizza delivery then sticks it in the freezer until the cheese is no longer liquid. Isn’t that fascinating.

Or weird I suppose, depending on your perspective.

To me it’s fascinating, but that’s because I recognise that sort of kooky behaviour. He is my people; it’s just that my little idiosyncrasies are either more socially acceptable, or more cleverly hidden.

In the spirit of inclusion however, I’ll expose a few for you now…

·               I have to walk on the left side of people. It’s very annoying for you if I don’t as I can’t seem to walk in a straight line if I’m on your right

·               I have to take the second item on the shelf at the supermarket, someone may have touched the first

·               I play a pattern on my fingers that I MUST finish, then reverse, then do on the other hand or I go slightly crazy

·               Before I get out of the shower, I have to wash my feet and armpits last, even though they’ve already been washed.

·               I’m developing a need to play patterns with my toes which is starting to drive even me a little bit nuts…

Miss Q doesn’t stand a chance. She’s starting young and has already developed a few of her own:

·               She doesn’t like things going over her head. Actually she doesn’t like getting dressed at all to be truthful. I’ve told her she may want to reconcile that, as it’s something that happens every day of her life. Unless she joins a nudist colony, which I hopes she doesn’t because I don’t fancy having to look at strange men’s doodles when I visit.

·               She doesn’t like the moopie (dummy) in the middle of the night even though I know it will settle her. She jams her lips shut and it would clearly be child abuse if I tried to force it in.

·               She likes the mad Russian composers best. Chopin clearly wasn’t depressed enough. Give her a bit of 1812 Overture and she’s as happy as the Russian serfs weren’t.

So next time you’re feeling weird when you line up your coat hangers with a perfect space between each, or take three large steps when you cross a street at the same time as someone wearing a red vest, console yourself with the fact that there are plenty of other weirdos out there. Like me. Or little Miss Q. Or Mr. Hot Cheese Hater.