There is no trouble so great or grave that cannot be

The last time I traveled to London, I arrived before my hotel room was ready.  It had been a long flight, I hadn’t slept, I was frazzled and dead tired.  I was told to return after 1:30, at which time my room would be awaiting me. 

I did, and it wasn’t.

I burst into tears.

At this point three people converged on me, one of them patting my hand, the other guiding me to a nice, bright table in the dining room screened from the noise and commotion, another bringing me ‘A nice cup of tea, dear…’  They scattered, then, returning after I’d drunk the tea and eaten the biscuits and dried my tears.  My room was ready…

I enjoyed tea in the British Isles.  When I traveled through Ireland (bed and breakfast; rental car, lots of photos…) my midday meal was tea.< 

I fell in love with Bakewell tarts, and the strong, milk-laced tea.< 

                                                                          


 Sandwiches, too…

                                                                         
And scones…

I have my laptop on my lap (where else?) I’ve eaten a light lunch and I’m contemplating putting the teakettle on to brew what will be my sixth cup today. I should be working on my current story-in-the-works (see my post entitled Mourningtide), but right now the thought of tea is holding my attention.>

It sounds like a good idea. There’s something about a cup of tea that seems to steady and comfort (not to mention the tannin that is good against a sore throat). Definitely comfort drink…And I still haven’t put the kettle on.  Excuse me, one and all.  I’ll write something literary and well-thought-out tomorrow.  Tea time!>