Tea-stirring
times is not a phrase coined by me – why would you imagine so? Did
you by the way?- although I do like my tea (black or herbal though it
may be and limited at the most to four or five cups per day) but by
Christopher Isherwood's Mr. Norris, and who knows who it was coined
by before him? Perhaps the real bald, wig-wearing, sexually deviant
man of contradictions. (You're interested now, aren't you?) Or
perhaps it came into usage at some earlier point in history when
times were also tea-stirring.
The
British believe a cup of tea makes everything better. Strong tea.
Milky tea. Sugary tea. Good for shock. Good for scandal and setting
the world to rights. Good with anything: breakfast, lunch, dinner and
in-between. Good at any time. It's genteel – dainty and ladylike;
it's builder – down to earth (a spade's a spade) and masculine. A
cup of tea is rarely refused: 'Love one', we say with a sigh when
asked, no matter how it comes: in a pot with a china cup and saucer,
or in a microwave, dishwasher safe mug. And tea, however it comes,
must be stirred. The impulse to do so is automatic. The liquid, even
if unsweetened and black, must be agitated; a brief vortex created.
For if it isn't, well, what will happen? The taste will be different,
your fortunes if told will be reversed. No, seriously, I don't know
what might happen if this ritual is neglected; I still stir. And stir
ever more vigorously, too. My mug becomes a percussion instrument: I
ding with the spoon, I tap with my short nails on its sides. The
teacup, though squat and circular, becomes a triangle: its tinny
small ring high-pitched but faint; lost unless the atmosphere is
hushed.
Silence.
Tea is being drunk.
Two
friends together sip the brown brew at the same time; at another
table, a woman takes thirsty gulps whilst her companion, across from
her, nervously nibbles the corner of a sandwich; a man sitting alone
stares into the cup: is it full, half-full, half-empty or empty? A
girl at home, with a fresh tea before her stops talking to herself
and lets her thoughts wander, before her fingers once again waggle
impatiently and poise themselves over the lettered keys.
Break
over. Pause done.
Nothing is
better, not really. Nothing has been resolved, for plans formed when
drinking tea rarely come off ; an idea may bear fruit or it may not,
and tea though it may have planted the idea won't be the deciding
factor. Tea, like night thinking, makes everything clear and then
sense kicks in and the feeling fades.
Talking,
sharing, doing recommences. People come together, part, with kisses
and hugs and declarations of : 'We must do this again!'; those, on
their own, check the time and make a dash for the door; those with
nothing to do, sit or make a pretence out of waiting for someone or
something. Some, deeply alone, make no pretence at all. They do not
even think, they just sit, hunched with eyes glazed until they become
aware tables are being swept around and the only voices they can hear
are those of the staff; all too ready for the chairs to be stacked
and the Closed sign to go up.
Politics
haven't been touched on, for whenever an opening was ripe neither a
teapot nor a teaspoon could be seen, could be found, and you don't,
well, you shouldn't if you do or attempt to, discuss politics without
tea. For it makes a whole mockery of living in tea-stirring times. So
many comments can be averted or disclosed with tea: pouring
distracts, the spoon adds further emphasis to what is or is not being
said, and the cup conceals the mouth.
Picture credit: The Tea Set, 1872, Claude Monet (source: WikiArt)
This post was penned in 2019.
