My Life In Tea

This morning a box arrived to my flat. I signed for it, and brought it inside, and only then did I wonder what it was. It was, I soon discovered, a "cheer up!" present from my brother in New Zealand.  There are few gifts more special than one that is given for no other occasion than to make you smile. Which this one was sure to do: my brother had sent me a box of a selection of fine teas.
Those who know me know how much I love my tea. Yet it's more than just a drink; it's something I have grown up with, and wherever I have travelled to, it has been a part of that journey.

Each cup of tea represents an imaginary voyage.  ~Catherine Douzel

CHILDHOOD TEA
When I was quite young, about eleven, I would work in my father's shop, helping serve customers, unpack stock, (and most of the time make a nuisance of myself) but I also made the obligatory cups of tea. I remember then that my own cup of "builder's tea" would require plenty of milk and a large heaping of sugar.  Often when I had gulped the last of the liquid there would still be a layer of sugar at the bottom of the mug.


As a teen I refined this syrupy recipe into, specifically, a splash of milk and two sugars. Or, "two and a moo," as I liked to say. By the time I reached 20 I had removed the sugar and replaced it with a single, questionable, artificial sweetener. Looking back it was clear I had so much to learn about tea.


ENGLISH  BREAKFAST
Then I moved to England, where tea as I knew it began to change. I still drank it every day, but I moved from "builder's tea" to English Breakfast. I had not yet developed my knowledge of teas beyond this staple, however, and while at one of my many jobs in London a colleague asked me to order some Earl Grey tea for the office. I distinctly recall raising an eyebrow and asking,
"Who on earth likes Earl Grey?"
"I do!" he replied. He was just as shocked that I didn't appreciate the Earl as much as I was shocked that someone would want to drink something that tasted like dishwater.

Something changed. Maybe it was the natural change that came with my slowly becoming Anglicised? Maybe I just developed further my sense of taste? Whatever it was, I soon became an Earl Grey drinker. And with it, I developed a fascination and thirst for the plethora of teas from all parts of the world. Tea became a passion.


BABINGTON'S TEAROOMS

The first time I had Earl Grey with lemon was, strangely, in Rome, at the gloriously decadent Babington's Tearooms. This fantastic place was founded in 1893 by two English women living in Italy, to create a simple sanctuary where homesick Britons could drink their tea and read the papers. Babington's sits at the foot of the Spanish steps, and it was here that I brilliantly decided to make the switch to lemon. This was also around the time that I realised the great flavours to be found in loose leaf tea, rather than in a teabag. It finally and completely opened the door to my truly appreciating good tea.




TÈ DIFETTOSO
Ironically, Italy was also the source of the worst cup of tea I've ever had. On the side of Mt Vesuvius, having zig-zagged around the slow ambling tourists and then being denied any decent trekking routes at the top for lack of a guide, finding a cup of tea felt like a matter of life and death. The refreshments truck on the volcano offered a variety of things, but tea was not one of them. Asking for some tea with milk was met with a strange look, and resulted in a cup of microwaved milk and peach ice tea. Of course, I shouldn't have been surprised - Italians are all about coffee.


TEA IN THE OUTDOORS
Most of the time the best cups of tea have followed some sort of hard phsyical slog or weary day. A particularly memorable cup of tea was had in Scotland, in a wild stretch of moorlands outside of Inverness. Having walked all day, there was some surprise to discover a hand-painted sign on the side of the path, which read, "TEA". 
This sounded great, but from where?
Some ambling off the path lead us to another sign reading "REFRESHMENTS", and behind it a corrugated-iron shed, a large crudely-constructed cage housing barking huskies, and a caravan. I couldn't help but wonder whether we we about to be captured and fed to the dogs - who had gone mental at the sight of us - when a tall, wild-looking bearded man came out to greet us. His name was Rory and he was a crofter, tending to the lands, who had not left the area for his entire life.
"Not at all?" I asked him.
"Why would I?" said Rory, stretching his arms out at the view. "I have all I need!"
He brought us some fantastic tea, (made to perfection by Rory who obviously cared about a good cup) which we sat and drank in his wild, overgrown garden.
"Just kick the chickens out of the way," said Rory.
It was one of the most surprising and inspiring tea stops of my life.

MINT TEA
In Morocco I experienced the renowned mint tea; a heady liquid stuffed with bright green mint leaves and sweetened with cubes of sugar. It was the warmth of it that tuned me into the frequency of Marrakech. I think one of the things that has always drawn me to Morocco is the role of tea within its culture. When you arrive anywhere you must have tea! If you begin a conversation you must have tea! And to accept tea from a stall-holder in the souk was to enter into a haggling game, during which the tea continued to be poured as long as one wished to bargain.


"You want some tea?” Mohammad asked, looking hopeful. This was his chance to really push the sale. We accepted. Now the haggling would begin.

Mohammad left his stall to organise the tea, and came back with tiny stools for us to sit on.  Amusingly, his own stool was between us and the door. The tea tray was placed on the floor, and the strong, sweet minty tea was poured into three glasses.
We made a toast, and discussed the popular subjects of football and Marrakech, but eventually it was time to get down to business.
- (from my blog, Two Weeks in Morocco)

WHISKY DU BERBER
In the Saharan desert I watched my nomad friends brew notoriously strong gunpowder tea leaves in a ceramic pot on the fire. They would pull a ludicrously large rock of sugar out of their pocket, break off half of it and put it into the pot. Tea (known as "whisky du berber", or "whisky of the berber") was the ceremony around which the rest of the day revolved. If you had reason enough to stop in the desert, then it was worth making tea for.

"Strange how a teapot can represent at the same time the comforts of solitude and the pleasures of company."  ~Author Unknown

One night in the desert, our camels had run away and our guides had been gone all day to find them. When the sun set, Ben and I were still alone, and so were forced to make ourselves a fire. Here I had a chance to try and make the tea as I had watched the nomads prepare it before. Yet it proved to me what I had already suspected - that for every kind of tea, there is an art to making it.

In the light of the headtorch I filled the little grey teapot with water and placed it on the fire. Once it boiled I opened the box of gunpowder tea, and scooped in a heap of the bitter black stuff. Thinking back to when I had seen Barack make it, I let it stew and then added a handful of sugar cubes. Tasting the tea, it was still terribly bitter, so I added another handful of sugar. It seemed there would be no room to add any more. 

Just as I was tasting it again, we heard a voice.
“Barack??” we called out into the dark. The moon had not yet risen, and there was no light except for the fire.
And then we saw a small dot of light moving towards us.
Barack had found his way back to camp, using his mobile as a torch. We each grasped his hand in warm greeting. Barack slumped himself down beside the fire.
“Tea?” I offered him. “It’s nearly ready.”
I was delighted to be able to offer our guide some tea, but it was still bitter.
Kindly, Barack drank the glass I offered him anyway.
“Is good!” he lied.
“Some more?”
He declined, and we laughed.
“Is no good!” I grinned.
“No no, c’est bon!” he assured me.


THE RITUAL OF TEA
Someone who appreciates really good wine, and the ceremony of sourcing it, pouring it, and tasting it, will understand the importance of doing the same for tea. Of course, such a person will usually go somewhere with a really good wine list and cellar. For tea-drinkers, there is The Ritz!  Ben and I were given the fantastic gift one year of afternoon tea at The Ritz hotel in London. (Frankly, anywhere that has a tea menu automatically piques my interest). There were more cakes and miniature sandwiches than any person could possibly eat, but more tragically to my mind, there were more teas than I could ever try in one afternoon. Darjeeling! Lapsong! Assam! Jasmine! Oolong! Where to start? And how to finish?





Actually, perhaps the greatest part of the Ritz experience was the heavy silver tea sets. It made the ceremony of afternoon tea all the more decadent and detailed. In the same way that the nomads took the time to make the tea just the right way, pour it just the right way, and serve it specifically to tradition, with their chipped glasses and fire in the sand; the Ritz hotel in London also gave time and attention to doing things right.


Everyone has their rituals. For me, the ceremony of tea is a comforting ritual, the way that the ceremony of prayer is a comforting ritual for the religious. Of course I'm not a religious person, and on Sundays I don't go to Church - instead I pick up the Sunday papers, make a pot of loose-leaf tea, and say a happy little hallelujah.


There is no trouble so great or grave that cannot be much diminished by a nice cup of tea.  ~Bernard-Paul Heroux

Dead Man Flying

Usually when I read the paper I'll come across a story or two which BOGGLES MY MIND. And this one in particular was too bizarre not to write about.

Last Saturday a pair of women went to Liverpool's John Lennon airport and attempted to check in a man in a wheelchair for a flight to Berlin. Not something that should cause a stir, except for one minor detail - the man was dead.

Understandably, he could not have checked himself in in such a state, so it was kind of the women to help him out. Naturally the police didn't see it this way, and arrested them immediately. Airline staff had became suspicious during the check-in process; likely when they asked him if he had packed his own luggage and the man didn't respond.

The thing is, he was wearing sunglasses - which makes me wonder if in fact these women had seen Weekend at Bernies and realised what fun times could be had with a deceased acquaintance. Why they chose to go to Berlin, rather than a beach house is hard to know - the house parties wouldn't be nearly as good.

OK seriously... this story is actually quite sad, if not bizarre. The women were his relatives and were trying to smuggle the body back to their native Germany to avoid the repatriation fees (which are pretty hefty it must be said). They apparently thought that telling airline staff that the man was merely asleep would be enough for them to get away with their plan. Did they really think they could get to Europe without somebody suspecting something was a bit odd? I mean, did they actually sit around and decide that this was the plan with the most potential for success?

I am sorry for the family's loss, and I can't help but admire their determination.
But everybody knows that you can't check in once you've checked out.

Loser Eats Win

It's a sad but honest fact that some people don't deserve to win things in life. Sure, I know that sounds a little harsh. But it's true. Classic example?

Ryanair Scratch-card Guy.

Flying on Ryanair from Poland to the East Midlands last month, our loser decided he would purchase one of the inflight scratch-card tickets. Somehow, somewhere in the deepest illogical corner of the universe, chances gave him a winning ticket. He won €10,000.

What happened next is somewhat extraordinary (and has become a classic example of why losers shouldn't win).

I wish I could have been a fly on the wall in that aircraft cabin. However all I have to go on are snippets from the newspaper article, and this is my own re-enactment of what reportedly happened:

Passenger (to Steward) : "Excuse me, I've won €10,000 on my scratch card."
Steward (delighted) : "Wow! Congratulations sir! ( To rest of plane) We have a winner here, folks!"
Passenger: "So, good, can I have my money please?"
Steward : "My good man, you'll have to wait till we land; then you can claim your prize from the scratchcard company."
Passenger: "What?! No! I want my money this minute! How dare you keep it from me!"
Steward (grin fading) : "Uh, but Sir, we don't have that kind of money knocking about the aircraft. It's in a safe place, with the scratch card company...."
Passenger: "It's my money! You swine!"
Steward: "Look, Sir, you can claim it when you land, you will get your money..."
Passenger (standing) : "This is an outrage! You thieves! You liars! You toy with my emotions! I shall not be a pawn in your ridiculous game!" (Stuffs ticket in mouth) Steward: "Woah! Uh! Wait, Sir, you don't want to do that. Just sit down, and..."
 Passenger (wide-eyed, mouth full of ticket) : "MMPPPH!" (Swallows ticket)
 Steward (eyes wide): "But...!" Passenger : "I will never fly your airline again, you crazy man!"

Ryanair donated the money to charity.

Losers should not be winners. It completely puts the entire universal balance out of order. Yet, this is what happens. Foolish people win money, get angry and eat their ticket. Nice sane people with big mortgages and rising debts don't get three matching symbols, and have to eat baked beans.

 The only consolation anyone has from this is knowing that charity gained.

Well that, and also imagining what that chap's wife must have done when she found out.

Plane Ridiculous

An airport worker is "traumatised" after her colleague used one of the new 'naked' body scanners on her while making lewd comments. Needless to say this is disgusting behaviour and I hope the louse gets fired. Yet this only fuels my abhorrence for these scanners and their ability to see through people's clothing. It's like something from the sci-fi fantasy of a horny adolescent geek.
If airport staff are traumatised by someone ogling their naked form, then has anybody considered that passengers will feel equally distressed by undergoing such indecency? I already anticipate having my dignity stripped away whenever I fly. Instructed to take off layers of clothing, and my shoes, to pass through security, I am then - semi-clad and barefoot - given a full body rub-down by a strange woman whose name I don't even know.

All this to go on holiday, eh?

I don't like these scanners, and if the day comes where I am forced to walk through one, I would rather opt for a pat-down and bag search... although if do take that option I risk being denied boarding. Taking off my shoes is one thing, but being seen naked by strangers to make sure I am not concealing explosives is the final straw for me. Frankly, I'd rather travel by train if only it were always a viable option. (This is a good move for environmentalists, it must be said).

Airline representatives can bleat on all they want about these naked images not being kept, or looked at for too long, but the fact remains - people I don't know get to see my private parts, and nobody can guarantee that lewd thoughts don't cross their minds, even for a second. This is the sort of treatment criminals get when being shuffled between prisons, and the general population does not deserve it.

Up until the introduction of the scanners, I thought airlines had gone bonkers enough. Let's consider the liquid restrictions on carry-on baggage. Passengers are forbidden to take liquids onboard of more than 100ml per item. (Unless, of course, you purchase them after you've cleared security. This prevents you from bringing on anything expensive that you could be buying from Duty Free instead. Hats off, this is smart business). The thing that really intrigues me, however, is the logic behind these restrictions on liquids.
A group of nutcase extremists once attempted to blow up a flight by packing some liquid explosives in their carry-on luggage. Their plan was to gather their materials together and construct the bomb on board the aircraft. Apparently they had two kinds of liquid explosives - one carried inside batteries (which, by the way, you are still allowed to take in your hand luggage), and the other carried inside 500ml drink bottles. Fortunately these human stains were caught before they could go through with it.

Following this near-miss, it seems a few chaps on a committee were feeling the pressure. So they got together and decided that from now on, passengers would only be permitted to carry containers of liquids no larger than 100ml, which they would present to security in a clear plastic bag. I do not fathom that they believed this would prevent such a threat from happening again. It wouldn't.

When I travel I can take at least six 100ml containers with me whilst keeping within security guidelines. Is 600ml of liquid in separate containers safer than 500ml of liquid in one bottle? Certainly it allows airport staff to keep an eye on things (other than our private parts, of course) but realistically, if extremists wanted to harm us again, this is not going to stop them. They can buy bottles of water once they clear security, decant their 100ml bottles of liquid into them, keep calm and carry on. (Sure I don't know the first thing about explosives, but I hear these terrorists are pretty persistent).

Similar confusing logic applies to the restrictions on hand baggage. Personally, I refuse to pay exorbitant amounts to check in a suitcase these days, and have now mastered the art of travelling with hand baggage only. I measure my baggage before I travel to ensure I am within the size restrictions. Weight might be another matter, although I find if I carry my bag on my shoulder, and act like it weighs nothing, nobody checks.

This is where it really gets ridiculous.

If you do get your bag weighed, and it's over the weight limit, you have to pay for it to go into the hold. Unless, of course, you take out some of your clothing items, and put them on. This is fine. It's also fine if you give some of your items to your travelling companion, if their bag is under the limit.

I cannot be the first person to realise that you are STILL TAKING THE SAME WEIGHT ONBOARD? All the rapped-knuckle-logic being spouted by the fluoro-clad airport staff about the importance of weight restrictions is ludicrous. It's fantasy. If my bag is 5kg overweight, and I take out 5kg of clothing and wear it on the flight, (where I will then take it off and put it back in my bag before I am seated), it makes no difference to anyone. Except the airline, who look like they are in control of the situation, should a situation ever occur.

(I don't blame the general airport staff - I have worked for major airlines in my time, and one of the reasons I left the business was because I didn't like spouting nonsense to passengers, when I knew it didn't make sense. I think it's safe to say most staff don't agree with, or even understand, half of what they are told to enforce).

This feels too much like a case of needing to be seen to take preventative measures, rather than taking measures that are actually preventative. Such measures probably don’t exist, short of banning everyone from flying. Taking religion's route of using fear and guilt to control the masses, these rules appear to be in place for no other reason than to make us feel like we're being protected. Yet at what cost? Where does the attempt to control our safety actually end?
Gone are the days of going on holiday and enjoying the journey as much as the destination. Now we are tagged, stripped, patted-down, searched, scanned, fined, and our good shampoo confiscated before we even get there.

Do I feel safe? I really couldn't say yes.

Sew Cool

I have always loved the idea of making my own clothes. When I was in high school there was a girl I was friends with who simply oozed coolness from every pore. She also had a little sister who was equally cool - so much so, I invited her to join my band, in hope it would increase our cool credentials. (It did not, but this just says everything about our band).


The thing about the Cool Sisters is that they had a mother who could sew, and who would make, at her daughters' regular bidding, all sorts of eclectic digs. I was intrigued - the coolest thing I owned was a pair of charity shop denim, high-waisted flares. (I know. Not actually cool. But I loved them).


Of course, the reason this seemed so radical was because making your own clothes was no longer common practice. Times had changed, and sewing was no longer the most practical way to clothe a family. The rise of readily-available acrylic clothing provided a more practical option and sewing had begun to die out.


My own mother didn't sew. She was an excellent knitter, but who could bear to see a child destroy weeks of hard work with one tree-climb? So I knew I couldn't ask my mother to make me something to trump my flares, even though I am sure she thought they were hideous. (They were).


On the other hand her mother - my grandmother - was an incredible seamstress, making most of my dolls clothes, and many of my own. I had always assumed this talent was a product of her generation; a life-long skill she had practiced since she was a girl. However I recently learned that my grandmother didn't learn how to sew until she had children - when she realised the practical and economic benefits of making her own baby clothes.


I still admire the thriftiness of my grandmother's generation. When times were tight, everything was used.  Clothes were made to last, mended, and handed down, and there was little waste. Obviously times have changed, and we dispose of far too much. Clothes are bought uber-cheap and then thrown away when they fall apart after a few wears. We could learn how to repair them ourselves... or better yet, make our own clothes. There would be less waste, less cost, and less environmental impact.  Outfits would be more unique, and made to fit. There are so many benefits, yet the majority of girls today have no idea how to use a sewing machine. I was one of them.


So I decided I would learn to sew, and bring the skill back into the family line.  I took a one-day beginners course at The Make Lounge where I learned how to use a sewing machine, and create a simple stitch. I came out with a fully-formed cushion I made myself  - one which I would have happily bought in a shop. Few things feel so satisfying as having made something yourself, and now I am hooked. A friend of mine kindly loaned me her sewing machine, and now I am going to practice. I want to get to a point where I can make a variety of different things; clothes which fit well, and with fabrics I choose myself.


Making your own clothes doesn't mean you also have to have a nose piercing and a worm farm... for a while this was in the realm of hippies, but before them vintage ladies were making beautiful dresses. Coco Chanel was a seamstress before she was a designer.


I have found an excellent book to get me started - "One Piece of Fabric" by ethical designer Lena Santana. So far I've not put it into practice, but the designs are gorgeous, the instructions simple, and I am pretty optimistic that I can make myself  a sundress in time for summer. (Or at least a cushion cover).

Feeling Lucky, Punk?

According to Oxford scientists, the chances of winning the UK National Lottery  is 1 in 13,983,816.  And to really drum home just how improbable this is, they add that the chances of dying between Friday and Monday is 1100 times more than that of winning the lottery.


So why do we play it?


Because, dear friend, there is always someone who wins it. Someone who plays the same numbers every week but never won anything, (except back in '02 when they won £47 and went out for tea). You see these people in the paper: a kind, middle-aged, working-class couple from a small town, riddled with repayments on their washing machine, who will now be able to take nice holidays, and - says the husband - buy that sports car he's always wanted. It's cute, and they're deserving people, and the photo of them grinning and waving a bottle of champagne (the wife always with her hair done and best lippy on - because now she's worth it) is the all too familiar reminder that someone has got to win it.


"And why not meeeeeee?" we all think, although we scoff and roll our eyes when we buy our ticket, and then put it in our wallet and try to forget about it. But you know it's there. I know it's there. And for that short time until the draw is made, we have a small atom of hope that maybe, just maybe, this time it will be US in the paper, spillling champagne everywhere. Every time we joke about "when I win the lottery", we're only half kidding... a part of us still believes there's a chance we might win the jackpot, and all our stress and troubles will miraculously melt away.


Of course, it doesn't happen, and we check the results, and immediately screw up our ticket in disgust. Disgust at our ridiculous dreams and for really thinking that we were ever going to win this. Don't people realise the chances of winning is 1 in 13,983,816?! I am more likely to DIE this week than become a millionaire! Dammit - HOW COULD I BE SO FOOLISH??!!


Still. I've got MY ticket. Have you?

What's All Your Furniture Pointed At?

I don't have a television.
But you can stop with the sympathetic expressions... this is a personal choice. (Yes, really).
The thing is, it never ceases to amaze me just how much we rely on our TV for entertainment, even when there is nothing there to entertain us. I mean, out of the ridiculous abundance of available shows, how many are really worth watching?

Come Dine With Me... Britain's Got Talent... Britain's Got Talent in the Jungle... I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here... I'm a Celebrity Come Dine with Me... Z-List Celebrities Eating Dinner... Celebrity Big Brother... Dancing on Ice... Dancing with the Stars...Celebrity Dancing on Ice... Dances with Wolves on Ice....

(I can't help but feel the decline of television came with the rise of the "reality TV" show. This, of course, came at the same time as the rise of "celebrity" and now it seems the two are so inextricably married, that if you are on TV for more than 5 minutes, you are entitled to paparazzi. Why? Because everyone is sitting at home staring at their TV screen, so if you're on it, you're famous. You don't actually have to do anything).

How many of you turn the TV on before you think about what else you might like to do with your evening? And how many of you channel-surf before settling on the 'least bad' programme on? (Be honest, you don't really want to be watching re-runs of The World's Fattest Pets do you?)

I'm not against television; merely our reliance on it and the overbearing presence of it in our homes and lives. Rather than being an appliance that we go to when we're in the mood to watch something - much like you would pick up a book - most people switch it on automatically, like a lightbulb. It has become a necessity.

Like Joey from Friends said, "You don't own a TV? Then what's all your furniture pointed at?"

People have actually congratulated me on doing away with it - but not as if I have given up smoking, (which would be a more apt comparison...) but as if I have joined a convent.
"Wow... good on you! I could never do that, but I think it's great that you're making that kind of sacrifice."

No I haven't joined a convent, but bless you for your concern. I really love a great TV show - if only there were more of them! -  and there are particular shows that I can't get enough of. Since I don't have a TV I watch them online, or DVD, and this way I can watch them whenever the mood strikes, not because the TV is on and there is sound and pictures coming out of it. (Also, this way my furniture can point at other furniture, which is much better for socialising.)

So alright, what do I watch that's so damn great?
The latest entertainment marvel I'm hooked on is Modern Family.  Now HERE is a show which has it all; it's sitcom, it's mockumentary, it's satire, it's sensitive, it's insensitive, it's heart-warming, it's hilarious... there is no bad guy, there is just one (forgive me for saying it) dysfunctional family, and each character is as likeable as each other. It's unusual. Not since Friends has a show got it so right, but unlike Friends, each episode is individual - a glimpse into a day in the life - and you don't have to follow dramatic "will they? won't they?" relationships and incestuous hook-ups. The most ironic thing of all is that Modern Family feels more like reality than anything I've ever seen on "reality TV" shows.

Watch it here (and give me your verdict:)
http://www.casttv.com/shows/modern-family