A guy at work was rubbishing Camp Coffee.
'Absolute dross, on a par with some of the worst supermarket cheap, chicory crap!'
I have an affection for this sticky beverage, so I beg to differ. A cup of camp made with hot milk is as fine a drink as any (except a good scotch). It's not bad in cakes too.
So if there's a bottle lurking at the back of your cupboard (probably stuck fast with congealed gunge), give it a go, you may be surprised. It evens boasts a new label with the sepoy and highlander sitting down and enjoying a cuppa together.
Allright, it's not coffee, but then it's never claimed to be.
Before this blog turns into a free advert, I must explain the coffee theme. For two weeks now I've given up drinking coffee.
At work this is dead easy, the coffee comes in those big economy tubs, where after a couple of weeks the contents have the resemblance (and probably the taste) of a tray of cat litter. At home it's more tricky, I like fresh coffee, made in a cafatiere, that fills the kitchen with a fragrant aroma and gives you that morning kick up the derriere.
I didn't think you could get withdrawal symptoms from coffee, but over the last few days I've had cravings as bad as any when I packed in smoking ciggys.
Ah well, I have a few more weeks to go yet, so best grit my teeth and enjoy my cup of Redbush tea.
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