Hard up

A recent conversation, during which it was suggested by The Friend that my self-diagnosed dim-wittedness was glaringly null and void as far as she could make out, but that the self-insulting was keenly alive and kicking, was proceeded by a visit outside to The Gardener. Asked him if he wanted a coffee and he obliged my hostessing penchant.

Came inside, whipped up a serve of my finest, East Timor Free-Trade ground beans - chocolatey and rich as all get-out - and thrust the mug in his hand before traipsing back in to answer the Room Service bell in the nursery. When I came back out, I was full of apologies at *only* having that coffee to serve him. As if the lack of Nescafé instant in the house (instant is a no-no in my books) was abhorrent to The Gardener. And not only that, but that our biscuit supply was non-existent because "I haven't had a chance to go shopping but I promise I'll have some for you next time."

He just looked at me, slightly mystified as to how to answer my wailings about the second-rate coffee and no Melting Moments, but he did stammer something about it being just about the best damn brew he's had on the job in a while.

In hindsight, can't help but wonder now if The Friend has a point.