Most mornings are a blur of joyless activity. Wake up, get up, shit, shower and shave, defrost the car, drive to work, open up and make do with an instant coffee before kick off. But recently I have rediscovered the joy of a more leisurely morning cuppa beforehand and what better time to indulge than on Sunday morning. Tea and a quiet rant at the morning papers. Chin-chin.
And, you know, Orwell's right. (He thought he was left, but much of his writing warns of what could happen when Socialism holds sway - and wasn't he just bang on?) Tea does make you feel a better man - more civilised less European and more, shall we say, British. So, hurrah for all that! (And yes, I am aware of the slight, hidden Graves reference there - dead erudite, me.)
Of course, not everybody likes a good and manly strong tea in the Orwell style. Imagine my horror to be confronted by the following version of events:
Yes, in the view of my tormentor tea should be at least fifty percent milk and toast should be barely distinguishable from the original bread. I mean, what's the point?
Shoot me now.