Thursday, 14 July 2005


I confess.

I have a tea-pot fetish.

I find them the ultimate in comforting and comfortable items, providing nourishment spiritual, sensual, emotional and mental. I defy anyone to look at a tea-pot for long without feeling better about the world in general.

I fell in love with this particular comedy example when we were last down in Somerset, and my sister bought it for me as a belated birthday present. I think there is something particularly pleasing about it's size and shape - quite apart from the fact that it looks like an extra from the film Chicken Run. It looks like it won't pour very well, but in fact the dribble factor is surprisingly low, so long as you can keep a steady hand and get over the fact that it is kind of sick-ing the tea through it's beak.

What can I say? Tea is very important to me. I am pursuing a one woman war with motorway service stations that don't have tea available in the glitzy 'serve yourself' machines in the shop - or those that if they do offer it, make it ridiculously expensive.

My campaign involves making barbed comments to B, loudly.

Obviously I never take it up with the management directly - that would somehow be Un-British.

Confession number two.

As a direct result of the Motorway Tea Debacle, I have started taking a thermos of tea with me whenever I travel.

It's only a step and slip before a good afternoon's recreation will consist of sitting in a deckchair in a layby by the side of the A41 with a cooler bag full of egg sandwiches, watching the lorries thunder by.

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