Why I hate coffee

Don’t get me wrong. I like the magical bean juice as much as the pumped-up office workers of London. It beats off fatigue with a hefty stick, just for a few hours, and marshalls my attention to fulfil the inane tasks of the day. The world is addicted to the drug, but it’s seen as one of the most useful and productive in history. It’s often cited as the reason that the Enlightenment woke up among the bitter fumes of London’s coffee houses. What’s not to love?

The first problem is the jitters. Coffee borrows energy from the future to pay in the present, but carries a hefty interest rate down the line. The clarity and hyper-awareness fade to a foggy state, where even the most banal of thoughts sludge through the brain’s neurons with the athletic pace of a snail. The sweats don’t help, either.

Then for a select few, the withdrawal symptoms become a particular type of anger. One where the smallest inconveniences - an overly aggressive email, or Hugo’s weird comment - are magnified multiple times over. Caffeine brings momentary clarity, which is then snatched away with ferocity.

Yet despite the setbacks, we need it.

The day starts as a mad rush, which then continues as a frenzied dash through meetings, work and notes. Keeping up the pace requires fuel in the tank fit for purpose. Caffeine is that fuel, though it sacrifices our best selves.

My balance is that I drink tea, only lightly dipped in water, with a healthy dollop of milk. The symptoms persist, but only softly; a light kiss over a drowning maw. But I am convinced that a better life balance is a better productivity cure, not a drink that makes us resistant to particularly tough working conditions.

Still, I like Starbuck’s lattes.