‘WHAT harm can it do?’ I asked myself. ‘It’s just a drink.’ If I knew then what I know now, I would never have taken that first fatal sip.
Truth is, I’d always been PSL-curious. I’d grown pumpkins on my allotment and it intrigued me to see them flavouring a beverage. I’d secretly fantasised about ordering one while knowing I’d never have the courage.
But when our local greasy spoon was closed for health violations, Albert and I dropped into a Starbucks. Albert had tea because he’s lame. I found myself saying those dreamed-of, forbidden words ‘A pumpkin spice latte please.’
The taste! The thrill of it. ‘This is dope,’ I said, using words I’d never allowed myself to admit I knew.
And now? Now I roll through my retirement village in fresh Uggs when I’m not in my sliders or Crocs. Albert doesn’t like them, but the ‘Gram does. I had 300 likes by the time I was bottomless brunching with my bae Mary from the bowls club.
I’ve been counting the days until the red cups come out, I’m manifesting Taylor tickets and blasting Midnights even though it’s kinda mid, and my bridge club biatches all know I’m a stan.
The man bun? Don’t even talk to me about my man bun. It goes with my drip and my four-eyed cat ink, which I’m building up to a sleeve. I’m pansexual and my partner Ethel’s non-binary. And it’s all thanks to the sweet kiss of PSL.