The Tea

by Ben Jones

It may be the case that weeks go by without The Tea showing up in my mug. Day after day I will enjoy a tea, but it will not be The Tea.

The Tea is that tea that when first enveloping my tired tongue invokes memories of cosy afternoons spent reading a book in front of the fire, watching the kittens snooze on the backs of the sofas, and listening to Mum pottering about the kitchen. The Tea is that tea that when swallowed can be reacted to in one way only: that is, by closing my eyes, grinning like The Cheshire Cat, and saying to myself: ‘mhmmm’. The Tea is a remedy. The Tea saved my life today.

Having discovered I had lost my Oyster card, I spent three hours on one bus this afternoon in the unexpectedly lengthy process of getting it back. It was by the end a matter of pride that I should not give in and come home empty-handed and pay the five entire hard-earned pounds required for a new card. Three hours of shaking about the bus as my frozen berries and spinach deteriorated into bags of mush. Three hours of researching Furbies (I would like one for Christmas) on my iPhone, and finding that after the fifth review there is really little more to learn about them. Three hours of wanting to cry because all I wanted was some tea and a sit down in a chair that doesn’t rattle along the roads at thirty miles per hour.

At last, I was home, and The Tea made everything better. How lucky I was to have come across The Tea today. I dare say that had I not come across it this evening after my three-hour transport binge on the H28 from Osterley Tesco to Bull’s Bridge Tesco and back again, I might well by now have been voluntarily lying in several bloody pieces across the stretch of the Piccadily line running beside my house.

Praise be to The Tea.