Britain’s coffee story starts in a tea shop.

By 1922, J. Lyons & Co had 160 teashops in London alone, and seven million people drank Lyons tea each week beneath the famous gold-on-white art nouveau lettering. Coffee was on the menu, but it was a footnote. The waitresses, selected by the company for deportment, hand condition, and ability to add up, brought a “small or large” with consistent, brisk efficiency.

Before the war, coffee in Britain was largely chicory-laced, often instant, and not the point.

The war did not change this situation. If anything, it reinforced tea’s grip. NAAFI sold 3.5 million cups daily at its peak. Mobile canteens-the Austin tea wagons-brought Twinings, not espresso, to bombed streets and remote anti-aircraft sites. WVS volunteers, over a million by the war’s end, handed tin mugs to firemen pulling bodies from rubble. “You had to smile no matter how tired you were,” one canteen worker recalled. “The boys needed you to be cheerful.” The brew was strong, sweet, and served by the gallon.

Coffee’s arrival came courtesy of an Italian dental equipment salesman called Pino Riservato. Travelling Britain in 1951, he was so appalled by what passed for coffee, often chicory water, that he started importing Gaggia machines. Nobody would buy them. So in 1953, he opened his own bar, the Moka, in a bomb-damaged launderette at 29 Frith Street. Gina Lollobrigida cut the ribbon. Within months, it was selling over a thousand espressos a day. By 1956, London had four hundred coffee bars. Teenagers, too young for the pub, finally had somewhere to flirt and listen to skiffle. As John Sutherland later wrote, the espresso “felt smart as hell.”

However, this lively period faded. Then came the long doze. The Sixties to the Nineties were an instant-coffee desert: Mellow Birds, Maxwell House, the kettle. In 1998, Starbucks paid eighty-three million dollars for a London outfit called the Seattle Coffee Company. They repainted fifty-six doors green and unleashed the grande caramel macchiato on an unsuspecting high street. Costa and Caffè Nero grew in their wake. We, the British, against all odds, learned to order coffee in Italian.

The fourth act is still running. Antipodean expats brought the flat white over in the noughties, and with it, a new species: the barista as artisan, the single-origin espresso, the V60 dripper and chalkboard tasting notes. Then came Monmouth, Workshop, Square Mile. Now, at a decent café in Brighton or Bristol, you might be asked which Ethiopian washed-process you prefer.

A nation that once asked “small or large?” now has a multitude of decisions.

The Tools of Excellence.

5: Trail Mix

Trail mix is the nutritional insurance you carry with you: it has nuts, dried fruit, perhaps some intense dark chocolate or seeds, combined in whatever ratio suits. It’s the nourishment that prevents bad snacking decisions.

The beauty is availability. Office vending machine calling? Reach for your trail mix instead. Three o’clock energy crash? A handful of almonds and raisins will quell that siren’s call. Long meeting with no break? It’s fuel that does not require refrigeration, reheating, or explanation.

Unlike protein bars with their mysterious ingredient lists, trail mix is transparent: you can see exactly what you’re eating, especially if you are the creator. Unlike crisps or biscuits, it satisfies hunger rather than triggering more cravings. The combination of healthy fats, protein, and natural sugars provides sustained energy, not the spike-and-crash of processed snacks.

I enjoy making my own mix: you can adjust the ingredients and volume to suit your nutritional needs. Perhaps nuts for protein, dried apricots for iron and pumpkin seeds for magnesium. Vary it with the seasons: add a dense dark chocolate during the winter months. Portion it into small bags on Sunday, perhaps while doing some meal preparation, and you are all set for the week.

Trail mix means you’re never hungry and liable to make poor choices. It’s a good snack that prevents the need for bad snacks. Simple, portable, effective. Excellence you can carry. On a budget.

The other 69 are here.

The Critical Path in Personal Productivity

In the 1950s, engineers at DuPont working on plant maintenance shutdowns developed a technique called Critical Path Analysis, CPA.

Faced with hundreds of interlocking tasks, they needed to be able to identify which ones actually mattered for the deadline and which were just noise dressed up as urgency. CPA identifies that in any project, there is a single chain of dependent activities that determines the earliest possible finish. Shorten anything on that chain and you finish sooner. Shorten anything NOT on it and you save no time at all.

For personal productivity, the critical path is the shortest answer to a critical question: what is the one sequence of things that, if delayed, delays everything? Much of what fills a working day sits comfortably outside it; the critical path is usually shorter, lonelier, and less appealing than the to-do list suggests.

Consider a Tuesday morning preparing a board presentation for Thursday. The deck contains a slide showing last quarter’s customer retention figure. You don’t yet have the verified number; finance is checking it. You can spend the morning refining transitions, sourcing elegant icons, and rewriting the executive summary for the fourth time. None of it matters. Without the verified figure, the deck is invalid however beautiful it looks.

The critical path runs through finance, not through PowerPoint.

This is why the discipline of asking “what is actually blocking me?” outperforms many productivity systems on the market.

Lists treat tasks as equals. The critical path treats them as a queue with one true bottleneck at the front.

Identify it. Work on it. Everything else, however satisfying, is decoration on a foundation that may not yet exist.

Honestly.

What did The Brits ever do for the world? Well, there’s The Beatles. Then there’s a pretty handy universal language with minimal grammar. And there’s

Fish & Chips.