Dearest blog reader your intrepid blog writer almost did himself in this morning, so forgive me if I seem a little shaken, if not stirred.
My morning ritual at work is well entrenched and includes a cup of coffee. I’m still not sure if I’m as addicted to caffeine as I make out but I do know a nice hot cup of coffee seems to settle my brain for another day at the coalface. It’s gotten to the point where I’m almost on auto-pilot until that first glorious mouthful of not quite scalding but hot-enough-to-feel-as-it-goes-down coffee hits the mark.
This morning was no different, I popped some coins in the meter, turned on the PC, fired up Outlook to let it start downloading the usual 200-odd emails of nonsense that people keep sending me, and headed to the kitchen area.
I retrieve my mug (the superman one), fill the kettle and set it to boil, make some tea, take my mug back to my desk, open up the first of many emails and take big long sup of… ACK!! WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS VILENESS THAT HAS ENTERED MY MOUTH!!!! THE DEVIL IS AT HAND, FLEE, FLEEEEE!!!!
Eagle-eyed readers will note that for no good reason, and I really mean for no reason of any merit that has ever been found on this entire planet, nay for any reason AT ALL in the ENTIRE COSMOS EVER!, I managed to not notice that I’d made myself a cup of tea.
Now I’m quite adept at making cups of tea, as my good wife will attest, but frankly I’d rather snort lumpy mud than drink the stuff.
Suffice to say that my entire morning routine was shaken to the foundations and it’s just as well the cleaners came along as I was THIS close to throwing a tantrum at myself before leaping off the roof in disgust.
Instead I went and made myself a cup of coffee. However I remain troubled, tea has no place in my mouth and, if I’m honest, I barely tolerate having any in the house at all.
What the hell is the appeal anyway?
I’m not taking anything posh here, no Lapdance Souffle or Earl Grit or anything, and certainly none of those would-be tea pretenders that are mango and guava flavoured, or lime and essence of coconut (sounds more like a bloody cocktail if you ask me), and certainly not anything advertised by Mr. Stephen of Fry. No, I’m talking Tetley teabag tea, or that one made by PG Woodhouse, you know, the one the monkeys like, the cheap stuff that is guzzled by the bajillion gallonfuls every day.
It’s the weirdest beverage, caught between wanting to be grown up (i.e. actually have a distinct flavour… like, say, snot) and trying to be palatable for all tastes and ending up timid and slightly sweet. It truly is the kiddy schizophrenics beverage of choice.
Hey, if you disagree with me, ask yourself this; Do you know someone who drinks “baby tea”? I bet you do.
And have you ever heard anyone ask for “baby coffee”? No, I thought not.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m an open-minded individual and I’m entirely willing to be convinced that, in actual fact, tea is something consumed by sensible adults. Goodness knows that there is plenty of evidence surrounding this argument but despite that I remain unconvinced.
Sometimes, in my darkest moments I wonder if it’s some weird kind of conspiracy, or worse, a fraternity/sorority of tea drinkers, a secret cabal of which I’m no part. In fact, now that I come to think of it that is the only valid excuse for so many intelligent people, people I trust and respect, to drink tea.
So, go one then, what’s the secret handshake?