As diminishing as the observation so often is, there is certainly no unexceptionable need to feel embarrassed about a habit. One of mine of especial note is an afternoon custom. Nor I suppose is it necessary to dignify the regularity by calling it a custom. The relieving feature – howsoever characterized – is that I adore my afternoon ritual. It is a fully anticipated ambition to which I project myself from the moment I set foot upon the floor planks in the morning.  It is as much an unwitting though imperative part of the scope of my everyday ablutions.

The purity of the habit is unquestionably promoted by the events of the day, the weather and other conventions which commonly include breakfast, cycling, gossiping and a car ride.  Don’t presume that all or any of them is or are so-called perfect or favourable. I don’t for example particularly care whether it is a sunny or a rainy day; nor whether I cycle in the garage or along the river; nor that my routine is technically interrupted by a professional meeting or a jaunt to the grocery store. Eventually I am assured that the afternoon will transpire, and not unlike other familiar predictions such as eating and sleeping, I shall once again be enabled to indulge myself in the tradition. Sometimes I confess the addiction is sterilized by an off-beat transition to Equator coffee shop for a quadruple espresso; but that only further ignites what is guaranteed to follow.

The recipe, should you care to know, begins by positioning myself upon the bridge, overlooking the unobstructed farmland and winding river that disappears into the horizon. From my dark mahogany desk (cultivated with brass, Lalique, millefiori and my favourite portrait photo) I listen with my headphones to Apple Music’s latest algorithmic productions. Today it is Handel’s aria Lascia Ch’io Pianga. If I haven’t already abused my enslavement to caffeine at Equator Coffee Roasters, it is foreseen that I shall have awaiting me a cup of chilled espresso muted by a sliced apple (preferably Granny Smith or Honeycrisp). The ensuing intoxication is the mettle of my composition and self-expression. While I woefully acknowledge that mundanity is the least of the slurs à propos I absolve the denunciation by professing only my hobby, my amateur (amare – to love) worthiness.