I remember the brush fence that had been built around the house that bust the budget, balanced on the hill with the sea encircling it like a decorative wallpaper. The woodheap next door was what attracted the snakes, and they would creep along the tops of the brush fence, hiding amongst the coarse bunches of sticks brambled together with wire. Gumboots and a shovel went hand in hand when the discovery of a snake was made, and I never saw the outcome that came after that, whether it was through shielding my own eyes or being called away from the window (so essentially someone else shielding them for me).
I remember how angry she was at the lack of street signs, at the winding roads in the place that there seemed to be a constant mist of rain from June until September. The anger at the warren of turns and blind corners, the slippery roads and the dull yellow headlights, turned into joy, when spring finally tickled our chins with warm fingers and the blossom tree at the bottom of the driveway burst into a calm array of pink and white.
I remember the smell of disinfectant that I came to associate with moving house, as we scrubbed out cupboards, wiped away the dust on skirting boards and powerpoints, the type of cleaning nobody really bothers with unless it's thought someone will examine these spaces with an attention to detail. There was a makeshift wall made from cupboards and boxes, which gave me a new appreciation for doorknobs, even if they didn't have locks. She would buy the discounted flowers from the supermarket, the wilted and sad ones, then nurse them back to life with water and sunlight, before they had their moment to shine on the front table, greeting the people we didn't know who might've wanted to buy the house ('We knew it was the house for us because of the slightly dead carnations in the front room').
I remember the lack of fly screens, in this place where blowflys and their disgusting magnetic buzzing tendencies didn't seem to exist. A lack of fly screens made it possible to thrust open the double windows and be faced with nothing between you and the air outside. As a result, people would tumble their bedding out of the windows in the morning, leaving it to air. Even when the air was so cold that you wondered whether it would turn the bedding to icy sheets of cardboard, deft hands would hurl the blankets from the terrace windows for the duration of the morning.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Friday, March 12, 2010
That smells like Tupperware
She spent most of her time waiting, killing time. While she waited she would watch the particles of dust dance in the sunlight. Thinking about doing that was boring, and untrue. Because the light didn't play tricks like that, didn't shimmer with dust fibres, didn't swap and flitter like a playful hummingbird (do hummingbirds exist in Australia?) In reality the light hovered outside the window, hid behind the bus stop, never reaching the corners of the space she occupied.
If she wasn't waiting, killing time, she was running, trying to revive the time that was beaten under her as she ran. It didn't seem fair, these two extremes. Lateness did not bode gracefully with her, not at all. Though clumsy in everyday existence, lateness was a sure shortcut to utter uncoordination, a formula for being flustered and red-faced.
When she rushed, time raced. When she waited (usually on a dirty bench, in the searing sun) time stomped slowly around her, scuffing its feet and dragging its weight.
She hated stepping onto the metal teeth of the escalator, always envisaging the fall that could take place (had taken place). While she stood to the left, she had watched a dust ball accumulate. It blew in the warm air that rushed from the platforms. It was dust, hair, fluff, forgotten bits and pieces. It grew like tumbleweed. She was repulsed, but intrigued, letting the metaphor spin forth in her mind. Sort of a sick fascination one develops at things that are unpleasant or horrific.
If she wasn't waiting, killing time, she was running, trying to revive the time that was beaten under her as she ran. It didn't seem fair, these two extremes. Lateness did not bode gracefully with her, not at all. Though clumsy in everyday existence, lateness was a sure shortcut to utter uncoordination, a formula for being flustered and red-faced.
When she rushed, time raced. When she waited (usually on a dirty bench, in the searing sun) time stomped slowly around her, scuffing its feet and dragging its weight.
She hated stepping onto the metal teeth of the escalator, always envisaging the fall that could take place (had taken place). While she stood to the left, she had watched a dust ball accumulate. It blew in the warm air that rushed from the platforms. It was dust, hair, fluff, forgotten bits and pieces. It grew like tumbleweed. She was repulsed, but intrigued, letting the metaphor spin forth in her mind. Sort of a sick fascination one develops at things that are unpleasant or horrific.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Monday to Friday
He was easily infuriated; it didn’t take much to ignite the fire in his eyes and open the door to let the raging demons run loose. The steel cage that contained his emotions wasn’t steel in fact. It bore no protective outer layer; his spitting ferocity and discontent danced and spiralled between the bars, threatening to lash out at any moment.
He didn’t want to be a part of the Race; he resented his alarm clock and its neon green digits, resented the tailored wool blend suits that filled his wardrobe with dull hues of black and grey; resented the weight of the briefcase that dragged against his fingers, his arm, his heart, leaving them all blistered, raw, exhausted, sapped of life.
He hated rats, considered them vermin.
His facial features formed straight and defined lines – his mouth was small and pursed, eyebrows narrowed, forehead disappearing into a sea of creases that were made more apparent by his meticulously ironed white shirt.
Subconsciously he rehearsed exercises that gave him a discreet advantage in the Race. He gulped down the bitter coffee from the café next to the train station, read over notes once, twice, three times until he mumbled them in his dreams. As his Italian leather shoes pounded the pavements littered with cigarette butts, he saw not the vague city skyline in the distance, but a ladder, with rungs that he had no choice but to climb, to conquer.
He frowned at the girl smiling to herself as she pushed through the ticket barriers at the train station, struggling against the tide of business attire that threatened to crush her. He scowled at her evident energy, her glee at entering the confines of the city streets, her youth, her colour that danced against the wave of black and grey.
Her flippancy made him clench his teeth in anger; he twisted the Metcard between his fingers as he watched a different set of neon numbers tick over, cursing ever second that he was trapped in a nest of squeaking, and squirming, of bright pink eyes and bald tails.
He smelt the damp and decrepit odour of rodents wash away from him as he turned his key in the lock, as he heard the thump of footsteps running along the hallway. The immense public stench of the train was replaced as wafts of dinner cooking tickled his nose; the stuffy warmth that came from too many humans in one place subsided as the cool night air touched his face before he stepped inside the front door.
The lines disappeared; the fury evaporated; the man who thrashed his way through the pack to reach the ladder first no longer existed. He buried his face into her hair, cradled her tiny frame against him, knowing that she would be wiping whatever was on her fingers onto his suit jacket, of which the cost could feed an entire family for a month – but he didn’t care, as he had dropped the weight at the bottom of the stairs, where it was to remain as he helped her cut up her dinner, bathed her, read to her, was there to kiss her goodnight.
He didn’t want to be a part of the Race; he resented his alarm clock and its neon green digits, resented the tailored wool blend suits that filled his wardrobe with dull hues of black and grey; resented the weight of the briefcase that dragged against his fingers, his arm, his heart, leaving them all blistered, raw, exhausted, sapped of life.
He hated rats, considered them vermin.
His facial features formed straight and defined lines – his mouth was small and pursed, eyebrows narrowed, forehead disappearing into a sea of creases that were made more apparent by his meticulously ironed white shirt.
Subconsciously he rehearsed exercises that gave him a discreet advantage in the Race. He gulped down the bitter coffee from the café next to the train station, read over notes once, twice, three times until he mumbled them in his dreams. As his Italian leather shoes pounded the pavements littered with cigarette butts, he saw not the vague city skyline in the distance, but a ladder, with rungs that he had no choice but to climb, to conquer.
He frowned at the girl smiling to herself as she pushed through the ticket barriers at the train station, struggling against the tide of business attire that threatened to crush her. He scowled at her evident energy, her glee at entering the confines of the city streets, her youth, her colour that danced against the wave of black and grey.
Her flippancy made him clench his teeth in anger; he twisted the Metcard between his fingers as he watched a different set of neon numbers tick over, cursing ever second that he was trapped in a nest of squeaking, and squirming, of bright pink eyes and bald tails.
He smelt the damp and decrepit odour of rodents wash away from him as he turned his key in the lock, as he heard the thump of footsteps running along the hallway. The immense public stench of the train was replaced as wafts of dinner cooking tickled his nose; the stuffy warmth that came from too many humans in one place subsided as the cool night air touched his face before he stepped inside the front door.
The lines disappeared; the fury evaporated; the man who thrashed his way through the pack to reach the ladder first no longer existed. He buried his face into her hair, cradled her tiny frame against him, knowing that she would be wiping whatever was on her fingers onto his suit jacket, of which the cost could feed an entire family for a month – but he didn’t care, as he had dropped the weight at the bottom of the stairs, where it was to remain as he helped her cut up her dinner, bathed her, read to her, was there to kiss her goodnight.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
'The world would be boring if we were all the same'
It was an artificial and fluorescently lit environment, a perfect feeding ground for daydreams and the brewing of longwinded thoughts and fables. What’s more, a window stretched from floor to ceiling, providing a view of the car park and stretch of main road, where even average behaviour was considered flamboyant.
Suburbia is breeding ground for The Grey (AC, 2009) because it’s this halfway existence between two drastic worlds. Souls get lost on their way to the city or the country, and die halfway in between, coming to a quiet rest on streets with identical footpaths, streetlights, rendered houses with Astroturf-apparent front lawns, a station wagon in the driveway and curtains hemmed by mothers-in-laws. If you walk too slowly through the suburbs (and no city does suburbia like Melbourne) you’ll get lost, and you’ll forget what the moon looks like without an orange ring encircling it.
Suburbia is safe, everything is comfortably within reach and its complete lack of anything unusual or unexpected means it’s an easy place to be a child, raise a family, grow old. But the thought of carrying out an entire life cycle in suburbia (like the cicadas that creak from the median strips, protesting against the council workers mowing down unruly grass) is positively eye-glazing. I feel grateful for the early years spent in salt-encrusted coastal towns, for the childhood past in a place where there was no supermarket because the heritage listing wouldn’t allow it.
I lost something when I was drifting through the middle-class paradise, while the windows lit with golden light, showing silhouettes of families eating dinner, blinked at me. I dropped it into the gutter, where fallen leaves don’t remain for long (we pay hideously expensive council rates for a reason, you know) and it was lost for a while. It reappeared one muggy afternoon when I was crushed against the window of a tram rattling towards Brunswick Road, I felt it drop into my pocket. It had lost its shine and it took me a time to realise how to polish it clean again.
Suburbia is breeding ground for The Grey (AC, 2009) because it’s this halfway existence between two drastic worlds. Souls get lost on their way to the city or the country, and die halfway in between, coming to a quiet rest on streets with identical footpaths, streetlights, rendered houses with Astroturf-apparent front lawns, a station wagon in the driveway and curtains hemmed by mothers-in-laws. If you walk too slowly through the suburbs (and no city does suburbia like Melbourne) you’ll get lost, and you’ll forget what the moon looks like without an orange ring encircling it.
Suburbia is safe, everything is comfortably within reach and its complete lack of anything unusual or unexpected means it’s an easy place to be a child, raise a family, grow old. But the thought of carrying out an entire life cycle in suburbia (like the cicadas that creak from the median strips, protesting against the council workers mowing down unruly grass) is positively eye-glazing. I feel grateful for the early years spent in salt-encrusted coastal towns, for the childhood past in a place where there was no supermarket because the heritage listing wouldn’t allow it.
I lost something when I was drifting through the middle-class paradise, while the windows lit with golden light, showing silhouettes of families eating dinner, blinked at me. I dropped it into the gutter, where fallen leaves don’t remain for long (we pay hideously expensive council rates for a reason, you know) and it was lost for a while. It reappeared one muggy afternoon when I was crushed against the window of a tram rattling towards Brunswick Road, I felt it drop into my pocket. It had lost its shine and it took me a time to realise how to polish it clean again.
Monday, January 11, 2010
When it started raining
1. Being dumped by a wave
A tremulous torrent of water, sucking at the tide and gaining strength as it rolls towards the shore. Dark heads bobbing at the breaking point.
The ocean swelled, an angry wall of water forming, the wave curving into a tip, breaking along the shore in a continuous cascade of water, a thunderous crack pummelling beneath the surface, churning water beneath its depths.
The swimmers decide – those armed with boards leap into the wave’s path, riding along its frothing edge until there is no more water. Then there are those without, some of who face the wave head on, attempting to stand against its wrath. The others (the smart ones?) dive beneath it, closing their eyes against the salt water fury and hoping to emerge on the other side, of calm.
The unlucky one is swept off their feet in the ocean’s rampage. Far from giddy and light-headed (the usual associated feelings with being swept off your feet) they are tossed beneath the blue concrete, paralysed momentarily as their limbs fight against the water surging against them from every direction.
An attempted fight is futile; an effort to gasp for air is wasted, because the wave has surged into every crevice of the world that they occupy. They will be tossed throughout the passage of water, whipped and wrung relentlessly with more momentum than the spin cycle on a washing machine, until – respite.
They will reappear in the shallows, coughing, gasping, spluttering, salt water bile streaming from eyes, mouth, nose, burning. Oxygen has a newfound glory; they cannot breathe in fast enough, inflating lungs scratchy with sand and salt. The wave’s victim is bent over, winded, as the smaller waves, offsets of the beast that created such turmoil, lap around their ankles. Already the sea is swirling again, waiting, biding time.
2. The silver ring with the green stone
Miles and miles of fields, blurring into a continuous strip of green. Miles and miles of road, stretched out before them, the bitumen smooth and dark, edges neat and finished. White windmills whirred gently in the breeze, giant arms reaching towards the April sky. It wasn’t cold, so two coats were unnecessary. The box was small, and unexpected. The green stone was set in silver, fit on the third finger on one’s right hand. She would stretch out her fingers like a starfish to admire it, the only piece of jewellery on otherwise bare hands. She did remember everything about that car ride.
3. Donuts with pink icing and sprinkles
Fake strawberry flavour is generally more appetising than fake cherry flavour. The icing that is slathered on bakery donuts is the epitome of baby pink. Donuts with pink icing and sprinkles will be chosen above donuts with chocolate icing and sprinkles.
A tremulous torrent of water, sucking at the tide and gaining strength as it rolls towards the shore. Dark heads bobbing at the breaking point.
The ocean swelled, an angry wall of water forming, the wave curving into a tip, breaking along the shore in a continuous cascade of water, a thunderous crack pummelling beneath the surface, churning water beneath its depths.
The swimmers decide – those armed with boards leap into the wave’s path, riding along its frothing edge until there is no more water. Then there are those without, some of who face the wave head on, attempting to stand against its wrath. The others (the smart ones?) dive beneath it, closing their eyes against the salt water fury and hoping to emerge on the other side, of calm.
The unlucky one is swept off their feet in the ocean’s rampage. Far from giddy and light-headed (the usual associated feelings with being swept off your feet) they are tossed beneath the blue concrete, paralysed momentarily as their limbs fight against the water surging against them from every direction.
An attempted fight is futile; an effort to gasp for air is wasted, because the wave has surged into every crevice of the world that they occupy. They will be tossed throughout the passage of water, whipped and wrung relentlessly with more momentum than the spin cycle on a washing machine, until – respite.
They will reappear in the shallows, coughing, gasping, spluttering, salt water bile streaming from eyes, mouth, nose, burning. Oxygen has a newfound glory; they cannot breathe in fast enough, inflating lungs scratchy with sand and salt. The wave’s victim is bent over, winded, as the smaller waves, offsets of the beast that created such turmoil, lap around their ankles. Already the sea is swirling again, waiting, biding time.
2. The silver ring with the green stone
Miles and miles of fields, blurring into a continuous strip of green. Miles and miles of road, stretched out before them, the bitumen smooth and dark, edges neat and finished. White windmills whirred gently in the breeze, giant arms reaching towards the April sky. It wasn’t cold, so two coats were unnecessary. The box was small, and unexpected. The green stone was set in silver, fit on the third finger on one’s right hand. She would stretch out her fingers like a starfish to admire it, the only piece of jewellery on otherwise bare hands. She did remember everything about that car ride.
3. Donuts with pink icing and sprinkles
Fake strawberry flavour is generally more appetising than fake cherry flavour. The icing that is slathered on bakery donuts is the epitome of baby pink. Donuts with pink icing and sprinkles will be chosen above donuts with chocolate icing and sprinkles.
So this is what you're going to do
Airports are peculiar places, these giant havens of people in transit, coming and going, assembled in eclectic groups that you wouldn’t find in any other circumstance; accompanied by luggage, trolleys, surfboards, wheelchairs, prams, toddlers, grandmothers. Though everyone is there for the same fundamental purpose (board a plane, flip through a magazine in a bored fashion, pay ridiculous amounts for cardboard-tasting aeroplane food, sleep in a grossly uncomfortable position whilst trying not to dribble on the person sitting next to you, disembark feeling groggy and covered in travel grime, eager to reach your actual destination outside the airport) nobody’s journey is the same. This bizarre hub of transport is the only time two people from opposite sides of the world may walk across the same tiled floor, passport in hand, clutching a ticket for a holiday, year-long adventure, new life, new start.
Open, raw emotion is something one would expect to find frequently in such a place where hellos and goodbyes are said at every waking minute of the day - people with torrents of tears gushing down their faces; happy tears, sad tears, exhausted, frustrated, angry tears. People shaking with quakes of laughter; relieved laughter, amused laughter, laugh-so-you-don’t-cry laughter. Though this might be the common belief (that stark emotion is more easily stumbled upon than a freshly made sandwich), more careful reflection reveals that this may just be as a result of watching Love Actually too many times and being slightly overwhelmed by the shiny-eyed credits that roll at the start of the film, showing people flying into different forms of embrace as they pour into Arrivals at Heathrow Airport. After spending 45 minutes in a queue in Charles De Gaulle airport, surrounded by utterly composed people looking with concern and fear at the girl blubbering harder than an angry whale, it could be said that airports are not quite as full of unbridled displays of emotion as first expected.
As in any situation where peoples’ usual routines are disrupted, it’s always entertaining to observe the means some will go to in order to preserve some kind of semblance of normality. Most commonly stumbled upon are the families with younger children who will gather around one communal suitcase (a makeshift table) and eat a breakfast consisting of three-day old muffins, juice and dubious looking fruit, balancing their meals on serviettes and making idle conversation even though their eyes are jumping out of their heads with exhaustion and announcements are blaring from the loudspeakers. Others include those who want a good night’s sleep and won’t let anything or anyone stop them – I’ve always envied those who can curl up on a row of seats with a blanket, pillow and eye mask and enjoy a deep slumber for the eight hours before their flight, unphased by the possibility of someone stealing all of their possessions or drawing something in permanent texta on their face.
Airports seem a permanent fixture within the means of travel now; the huge, dry and dusty island that is Australia has ensured plane trips are virtually inevitable for most who live here. So for the eons to come, we’ll still shove our belongings into suitcases (cursing the 23 kilogram limit per person) waste time at boarding gates, stare blankly at the air hostesses performing the safety proceedings, watch the city lights disappear beneath a blanket of cloud, pass minutes, hours, days with magazines and crossword puzzles, watch movies that fail to distract you from your furiously-protesting body clock, itchy eyes and cramped legs, wait in queues at Customs, at baggage terminals, all to walk through the automatic doors into a crowd of expectant people, only to see the person waiting to the side for you, to welcome you to this home, for now, here.
Open, raw emotion is something one would expect to find frequently in such a place where hellos and goodbyes are said at every waking minute of the day - people with torrents of tears gushing down their faces; happy tears, sad tears, exhausted, frustrated, angry tears. People shaking with quakes of laughter; relieved laughter, amused laughter, laugh-so-you-don’t-cry laughter. Though this might be the common belief (that stark emotion is more easily stumbled upon than a freshly made sandwich), more careful reflection reveals that this may just be as a result of watching Love Actually too many times and being slightly overwhelmed by the shiny-eyed credits that roll at the start of the film, showing people flying into different forms of embrace as they pour into Arrivals at Heathrow Airport. After spending 45 minutes in a queue in Charles De Gaulle airport, surrounded by utterly composed people looking with concern and fear at the girl blubbering harder than an angry whale, it could be said that airports are not quite as full of unbridled displays of emotion as first expected.
As in any situation where peoples’ usual routines are disrupted, it’s always entertaining to observe the means some will go to in order to preserve some kind of semblance of normality. Most commonly stumbled upon are the families with younger children who will gather around one communal suitcase (a makeshift table) and eat a breakfast consisting of three-day old muffins, juice and dubious looking fruit, balancing their meals on serviettes and making idle conversation even though their eyes are jumping out of their heads with exhaustion and announcements are blaring from the loudspeakers. Others include those who want a good night’s sleep and won’t let anything or anyone stop them – I’ve always envied those who can curl up on a row of seats with a blanket, pillow and eye mask and enjoy a deep slumber for the eight hours before their flight, unphased by the possibility of someone stealing all of their possessions or drawing something in permanent texta on their face.
Airports seem a permanent fixture within the means of travel now; the huge, dry and dusty island that is Australia has ensured plane trips are virtually inevitable for most who live here. So for the eons to come, we’ll still shove our belongings into suitcases (cursing the 23 kilogram limit per person) waste time at boarding gates, stare blankly at the air hostesses performing the safety proceedings, watch the city lights disappear beneath a blanket of cloud, pass minutes, hours, days with magazines and crossword puzzles, watch movies that fail to distract you from your furiously-protesting body clock, itchy eyes and cramped legs, wait in queues at Customs, at baggage terminals, all to walk through the automatic doors into a crowd of expectant people, only to see the person waiting to the side for you, to welcome you to this home, for now, here.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)