Erik Petersen: Don't mind me
NO offence if you love Irn Bru and served it at your wedding reception, but I can't really stand the stuff. To me it tastes like something you'd use to clean a printer.
And yet as I type the very prose you now read, I'm sucking down a bottle of the aggressively orange concoction.
It's mid-morning, my coffee is done and Irn Bru is the only caffeinated option available in the Post Towers vending machines aside from the substance that occasionally emerges, hot and belligerent, from the "coffee" machine.
There are five different rows of Irn Bru in the machine, sat there with the other dorky outcasts of the fizzy drinks world, Fanta and bottled Ribena.
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They will sit there looking sad and alone like unloved toys until the vending machine guy arrives and restocks it with Diet Coke and other things people actually want.
To my knowledge, nobody except me at the depths of a caffeine binge has bought an Irn Bru from the Post vending machine since 2005, when a mate of mine who claimed to be Scottish, despite being from Warrington, left the paper.
And yet nobody at Post Towers seems to say anything to the perfectly friendly vending machine guy. I suspect this is a Very British Problem.
If you haven't seen it, Very British Problems is a thing on Twitter, the micro-blogging site that I, as a newspaper professional, should now be describing in a paragraph of dull explanatory boilerplate, so if anybody asks that's just what I did. Very British Problem's Twitter handle is @sovery british and the tweets include such problems as:
Not quibbling with the unexpectedly high price, despite being certain your choices fully adhere to the rules of the Meal Deal.
Not quite catching someone's name, meaning you never speak to them again.
Being incapable of placing your items on the counter in a newsagent's shop without saying "just these please".
They're the sort of jokes that sometimes get written off as cheap stereotypes by people livid at their accuracy.
Heck, I recognise myself in them and, as long-suffering readers will know, I'm not even from here.
For me, the familiarity of all this has been jarring, like a scientist who's been living for years with apes and now notices that he's absent-mindedly picking fleas off his mate.
This subtle change in attitude affects my home life as well.
More than half a year ago my wife and I switched television providers, and we forgot to make the call to set up the on-demand service with our new provider. So we've never had on-demand. By calling now, we would be admitting this to Sky.
So we do the only logical thing one can do in the situation – we shrug and accept that we will never have on-demand television.
If we miss the first ten minutes of a programme, we just don't see the first ten minutes. If we miss a programme entirely, we seek out times when it will be shown again. We don't want to be a bother.
It's a way of life I've come to accept. I sit back, crack open an ice-cold Irn Bru and watch the last 20 minutes of Midsomer Murders. I'm very sorry.