Tea.
I have absolutely zero opinion about the nation's favourite hot drink, i don't drink it. Apparently when the Second World War was announced on the wireless there was a nationwide power cut; every kitchen in the country simultaneously went to put the kettle on. Same way every living room in Columbia reached for the uncut the second Higuita did this in a friendly against England.
Tea makes me feel like the fat kid in the playground who never got picked for team activities. Every time people decide to make 18 cuppas i just have to sit there drinking tap water, pretending everything is fine. For me being surrounded by people drinking tea is the same as Will Smith being surrounded by those zombie freaks in I Am Legend.
In January 1946 George Orwell wrote an essay entitled A Nice Cup Of Tea which was published in the Evening Standard.
My flat mate India, being partial to a cuppa now and again, got a copy of the essay specially designed by a friend and put it up on one of the kitchen cabinets. Try as i might to avoid it, there it is staring me in the dang face every morning. As a result i've learnt a whole lot about this tea of yours, and although i wholeheartedly refuse to ever brew myself one, i can imagine it making pretty interesting reading to all you fools enslaved by the tradition of the cuppa.
Here it is.
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