I can’t remember when my love of coffee grew into a problem. For most of my 20s though, I tried and failed to give it up. I would last a week or two before I’d cave in and buy a cup: a small, chocolate-sprinkled mocha (no cream) or a black americano. I’d savour the aroma. Drink slowly to make it last. But once the caffeine high wore off I’d crash into misery and restlessness.
I used to see coffee as the main event of each morning. I’d wake up anticipating the comfort of a warm cup in my hand, as well as the rush of energy that came with each sip of bitterness. Besides, I needed it – in my early 20s I commuted an hour and a half across London each morning. I’d always struggled with insomnia, and although caffeine made it worse, I craved a morning cup to vault me into wakefulness. Once at work, I drank more to boost my mood throughout the day.
