Earl Grey is for special occasions

The origin of certain things can be traced back, grabbed onto like a persistent garden weed wrenched upwards out of the ground until the roots are exposed, trailing clumps of dirt. If you look hard enough, the grains of soil can tell you more.



There are some things in life that you are unable to choose whether you like or not; they are ingrained into you, learned behaviour that you have no say in - copied patterns from the people surrounding you during the years you are cherub-faced and impressionable. Later in life, you may be exposed to the alternate by outsiders; decide that it's better and change - sometimes not, and these learned behaviour patterns (that you only follow because your mum does, and her mum did) will reign supreme.



'Do you want a cup of tea?'



A negative answer to the above question always unnerves me slightly. If I'm faced with an emotionally traumatic situation in which the person involved doesn't drink tea, I'm generally at a loss with what to do. Isn't a hot, sweet cup of tea the answer to all woes? Milo just doesn't cut it and coffee isn't exactly in the soothing comfort category.



There used to be three cups, one for each of us. They descended in size according to our age, though the mugs didn't grow with us as you would expect them to. Before I was old enough to see over the top of the table, I would balance precariously on the brown vinyl chair and heap spoonfuls of sugar into my cup into which the teabag had only been dipped once or twice, meaning there was only the slightest brown tinge to the milky rim on the surface. We didn't sip, we slurped, we didn't nibble at shortbread, we sucked the warm tea through a Tim Tam and shovelled it into our mouths before the inevitable catastrophe occured (the Tim Tam melting and falling into the bottom of the cup, forever lost).



As I got older the tea got stronger - the two heaped sugars was cut down to one, then none - the teabag now remains in my cup instead of being strained seconds after it was thrown into the boiling water. Of the three stained ceramic mugs that used to line the kitchen bench as the kettle shook and boiled, mine is the only one that remains - my brother and sister are now far less committed tea drinkers than I am.



Tea is the ultimate social tool, a fabulous procrastination device - couldn't study without a cup of tea - a way to fill in empty minutes (it wasn't just the drinking practice itself, but the fussing with the kettle, the milk - it ate away at awkward silences more furiously than termites at wood bearings).



A morning without a cup of tea feels strange, I feel displaced, like I've forgotten to moisturise my face - my skin is taut, I'm impeccably thirsty and no amount of water will quench my dehydration that craves only one thing. Even if I haul myself from bed fifteen minutes before I'm due to leave the house, I'll boil the kettle and make a tea that I'll only take a few gulps from, usually burning my mouth and leaving a cup that's three-quarters full, the tea bag floating on top. I leave a trail of tea carnage in my wake, increasingly mouldy cups littering different surfaces until I finally run out of clean mugs and have to wash them all.

I feel a powerful connection with fellow tea-drinkers - it's always comforting to find that a similar passion exists in a friend or accquaintance. The ultimate satisfaction is in a shared pot of tea, or making a cup for somebody else - drinking it together, even if it's not quite how you'd normally have it, is incredibly warming.