for the love of teacups

beestingsanddogbites:

In case it wasn’t clear already, I like tea. I like tea a lot. I love the look of it, the colour of it, the smell of it and the taste of it. I’ve been busy this week, working half the days, and paying visits to friends the other half. I noticed, somewhere a lot the way, how accustomed I am to drinking tea, even when I go out. Oh Wednesday, when I met up with someone important to me, I had a chai; that same day when I met up with another friend, we sat around and drank, like we always do when we catch up, and drank tea. On Friday, when I caught up with another friend, we sat on her bed, caught up, and drank tea out of beautiful teacups.

Even when I’m home, I’m very rarely without a cup of tea in my hand, and nothing quite cheers me up like a cup of tea. I take one in the morning when I drive to work; I drink it at work; I make one as soon as I go home, and I’m always nursing a cup in my hand. I love drinking out of dainty little cups, and chances are, if we’re sitting around together, the second you stand up, I’ll say “Oh, and while you’re up, could you please make me a cup of tea?”. This morning, the power was out. I was so lost without my morning cup of tea to wake me up. Maybe that’s why I was so tired all day.

My worst habit though - and anyone that knows me can vouch for it - is leaving little bits in the bottom of my cup. I think it stemmed from when I was in primary school, and someone told me not to drink the last 10% of my strawberry milk, because it was all saliva. I realise now that, unless you’re a shocking back-washer, that that’s really untrue; yet I still subconsciously never drink the last bit of my tea. Usually, this results in it being left, hidden, on a windowsill in my room, and isn’t taken downstairs to be washed until it starts to grow its own ecosystem.

It’s disgusting. I know.