Today, I gave in and did something that until that moment I had flatly refused to do. It wasn’t a great thing; it won’t change the world, sort out the problems in Pakistan, or solve the funding issues within the NHS, but in my own small way it was a big change. I shall explain.

Like many people, I don’t function at all well in the morning unless I’ve had a lovely steaming mug of crow-black coffee. But coffee to me is not just about functioning. Oh no. I’d go as far to say as I Love coffee (note the capital L). From the magical concoctions of the baristas through to the cheap flavour of the last chocolate in the box, I’m there to savour it all. So, it’ll probably come as no great surprise for you to learn that I spend a lot of time in coffee shops. As a writer, coffee shops are my spiritual home. They are the retreat from which I power up my ideas and muse on complex things like lightbulbs or simple things like Bono. They are also a wonderful source of inspiration, for it is from coffee shops that I sit idly in comfort most days watching the odd folk of this world going about their business and leisure. Oh yes, I’ve spent many productive and wasted hours in coffee shops. In fact, I’ll wager that if you can think of a type of coffee shop, then I’ve sat in it. I’ve sat in the big American ones, the American ones that pretend they’re Italian, the Italian ones, The British ones, the French ones, the independent ones, and a fair few others that effort dictates I will not name. Coffee shops and myself are trusted friends. Soul brothers of sorts.

So I think that I speak from experience when I say that there is one thing about coffee shops the world over that is the same. And that is this. All coffee shops give ridiculous names to the various concoctions they offer. Now, I’m a simple man. I don’t wish for a Frappucino Pendalino Super Soft Skinny Mocca Latte with marshmallows and a sprinkling of star shaped chocolate. I’m not under the illusion that I’m consuming a bit of luxury in my otherwise pointless life. No. I just wish for a black coffee. Simple. But, and here’s the rub, I’m not allowed to ask for a black coffee, because it’s not up there on the menu in black, white or multi-coloured letters. What I have to ask for is an Americano. This greatly annoys me, not least because I have to add an ’o’ to the word American. It also annoys me because by asking for an Americano it adds an extra unnecessary layer of conversation with my server. Not that I mind a bit of idle chit-chat you understand, but clarifying whether I would like my Americano with or without milk is not what I have in mind. Granted, I could just ask for a black Americano and avoid the fuss, but I figure that if I asked for a black coffee in the first place I’d be saving myself 3 syllables.

The short of all this is that I have refused for many years to be sucked into this Guardian reading over complication of coffee products. I have always made it my personal duty to only ask for a black coffee, no matter what silly name it goes under in the coffee shop. Sometimes, this works fine and the staff just get me my order, with, I like to think, a little knowing nod, to show that beyond their branded polo shirt, the wily member of staff actually agrees with me and my deviant request. Sometimes however, I am faced with a blank expression.

In the olden days the blank expression was usually from those employees who were not best up to date with their minds. More recently however, the blank looks are from Polish girls on the minimum wage. And this is why today, for the first time ever, I stopped asking for a black coffee, gritted my teeth and muttered the dirty word Americano.

The specifics are this. The poor Polish girl at the coffee shop I currently frequent is a relatively new arrival. I have noted that the management started her off on simple table cleaning duties and then slowly, ever so slowly, introduced her to the labyrinthine coffee machine. It was only today however that she was let loose on the customers. Now, this dear young girl does not have a wide grasp of the English language (although her English is probably considerably better than our Polish) so she is at a moderate disadvantage to start with. Couple that with her having to learn the menu of the coffee shop quickly, and you have the recipe for potential disaster. Given these factors, it’s hardly surprising that when I asked for a black coffee she faltered somewhat. But God love her, she did her best.

What she did was look at me blankly, scratch her head and then give me a big lovely smile. It was a smile that said, “I don’t understand a word you’re saying, but here, have my best smile and let’s start again.” Of course, under such circumstances, how could I possibly ask for a black coffee a second time? You’re right, I couldn’t. So I weighed up the situation, reverted to the big black menu board above her and then brought to the fore my deeply engrained sense of British good manners. I then took a deep breath, grimaced somewhat, and from my mouth out popped the word Americano. She, to her credit, understood me perfectly, asked if I wanted it black or white, verbally passed the order to a Chinese teenager with a mullet and gave me another one of her winning smiles.

So there you have it. I have broken one of my cardinal rules. But, now that I have explained myself, I think you’ll agree, that on the odd occasion, I must toe this new-fangled, PC, up-its-own-arse line. I’ve got the EU to thank for that. I blame Leon Brittan.