My last post, my rubbishy updates post, was my 200th post on this blog. How awful is that? I was planning to do something special and failed completely! This however is number 201. It’s a Tea 101. No, it’s not. But whatever. I’m tired…excuse my rambling…
I’ve been told, by people and books the world over, that the English drink tea. Arthur Dent of the Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy, is famous for his liking for tea.
I am English. I have lived in England all my life. In fact, in London, with red buses and not tubes, because I’m on the wrong side of the river. But I do not like tea.
Oh, my parents do. Some of my friends do. My sister does. But I do not.
Today, I observed a most depressing sight: my desk. On one side of it is an Italian exercise book. There’s another on the other side of the laptop, by the dalek alarm clock. It sits on top of a Physics revision guide. My bed, to the right, is looking after an English book, a Biology exercise book, a Music coursebook and a score of Chopin’s Prelude in Dflat major, a Physics exercise book, To Kill A Mockingbird, and some Chemistry notes on moles and volumes of gases.
I also have a folder of revision notes, a pile of gel pens, my student planner and a calculator.
This is a Saturday afternoon.
Well, you tell me, you had the whole morning to relax.
No, I didn’t.
So you were writing? That’s your own choice. You didn’t have to do NaNoWriMo.
No, I wasn’t writing. And I did – the voices in my head said so. But that’s another story altogether.
So what were you doing?
Dancing of course. Well, I started by helping the Primary and then the Baby ballet classes (from 9:15am! Oh, cruel world!), and then had my own class, and then hurried to orchestra until half past twelve, and then walked home, and then ate lunch, because I’m a priveleged first world person with ballet classes and food.
And now I have work.
I told myself that at six o’clock, I would have finished everything I had to do. I will then write, do violin practice, and eat dinner, in the space between then and half past nine, when I will watch QI. I know this, because I have set a scheduled tweet at 6pm to say that people should ask me if I’ve finished my work.
If I haven’t, then they will hold me to account.
This seems to me like a good idea, holding myself to ransom. It will increase my productivity and I will be able to write lots in three and a half hours, not that I’ll spend the whole time typing (relax, computer. I really won’t).
So I’d better get on with it.
But what’s that got to do with tea?
Well, you don’t think I could get through this without caffeine, did you?
Actually, no, there’s more of a story to it than that. See, my mum said, “So, you’ve got a whole afternoon of work. Would you like me to help you or encourage you by bringing you some tea about two hours in?”
That’s lovely and sweet of her, but I politely refused – I’m not a tea drinker. “I started drinking tea when I was working for my O-Levels,” she said, in that reminiscing way that parents have. “You’ll have to learn…”
After an hour, the idea was rather appealing. I went downstairs, and made myself some tea. And it was gross. Probably that was partly because I don’t know how to make tea and was guessing, but whatever. Tea isn’t nice. I don’t even feel awake.
But I feel significantly more British than I did before.
Now all I need is a scone.