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My colleagues have extolled the virtues of various coffee-making methods over the past few days, and I can't fault them for having elaborate rituals around caffeination. I, too, appreciate the slow-and-steady movements of a French press or the delightful bubbling of a percolator. But they are not for me—not on a weekday, given how much of a menace I can be in the mornings. Since I was a little girl, I have woken up on the wrong side of the bed more often than not, with bedhead that matches my attitude problem. There's no time for boiling water in an aesthetically pleasing gooseneck kettle. There's no patience for a sweet little moment with my fancy burr grinder and my portafilter. From the moment I open my eyes, it's a race to caffeinate my brain as quickly as possible.
Her mother Jenny said: "I'd say in Tilly's life at least about 10 times I've honestly thought that she's gone, she's died, with the seizures and going on to ITU and them all saying that we can't stop it and the panic."