Some time ago, I entered a contest. The prize was a chance to star alongside George Clooney in a Nespresso commercial. I never heard back from the contest organizers, so I suppose they picked someone else, which is a shame, really, because with the number of Nespressos I down per day, I was the perfect candidate.

I’ve always found Mr. Clooney rather yummy, and I’m sure that a couple of hours spent in his wobbly-headed, charming company wouldn’t be too much of a drag. Come to think of it, as anyone who has ever seen my walk can attest, wobbly heads are something George and I have in common. We’d probably look quite funny ambling down the street together, sort of like those weird little plastic dogs sometimes seen on the back window ledges of cars, though I doubt this common trait has anything to do with drinking too much coffee.

I don’t go out of my way to drink Nespresso because Mr. Clooney endorses it; like millions of other people, I have simply fallen prey to Nespresso’s fabulously practical coffee machines and am now handcuffed to the brand. And while I’m aware that the hundreds of capsules I go through every year leave a carbon footprint worthy of the Yeti’s entire family, let me assure you that my large feet carry me around the local recycling plant faster than you can read a Starbucks menu.

The other day, while zipping around the village recycling facility with yet another trunk-load of semi-sorted rubbish, I ran into one of my wackier girlfriends. There, squirming beneath the rapacious eye of the man who ensures that, since there’s a place for everything, everything’s going to be BLOODY well put into its place OR ELSE, we giggled up a zany idea. Continue reading →