Where has the last week gone? That’s a rhetorical question and I’m not expecting a response, although I would of course be delighted to hear from you should you wish to comment. I have adopted a new routine as a result of suffering a heart attack and fairly extensive study into the things that I should do to promote a healthy mind and body, thereby hopefully extending my time on Planet Earth, although I have no aspirations to match the late lamented Duke for longevity. As an aside, isn’t it extraordinary how it’s taken his death for so many people to realise what a national treasure he was? Anyway back to the new schedule. I have decided that as Lent is now a distant memory the consumption of the occasional glass of red wine should be permitted, but never on consecutive days. This should serve to keep the “units consumed” well below recommended levels. Secondly, I am having a total fast day every Monday. This has been my fifth week of doing it and whilst it doesn’t get any easier with time, I’m determined to stick with it as I can already feel the benefits. Now a stone and a half lighter as a result of an incredibly healthy diet, I’m feeling rather virtuous. This is all a rather long-winded way of explaining how I came to today’s thought!
Without food, drinking becomes an even more crucial pastime and so numerous Go Mugs of coffee are interspersed with the occasional green tea and a fine cup of Earl or Lady Grey at teatime. This afternoon’s scented delectation made me wonder what has happened to The Great British Tea. I’m not talking about the drink, but the meal. That splendid social occasion that used to be such a crucial part of my grandmother’s afternoons. At 4 pm precisely the cake stand would appear, loaded with delicious biscuits (not cookies!), finger cakes and the odd chocolate finger if you were lucky. Alongside it would be a plate of delicate white squares, otherwise known as cucumber or egg and cress sandwiches, neatly cut into bite-sized chunks with the crust disdainfully discarded. Small porcelain plates would be laid out with napkins and knives and invariably the best china cups and saucers would be there, poised to receive the perfectly brewed Darjeeling, which Granny would pour from the matching teapot, being sure to coat the cup’s surface with a little milk first; most important. As was warming the teapot for a couple of minutes before adding a small amount of boiling water to let the tea brew before filling the pot to the top. An elegant tea cosy was another essential. The good ladies of the Parish were often invited to join Grand Mama for an hour or so of social chit chat and no doubt not a little gossip. Being part German, there was one particular German cousin who used to be invited regularly to help my ageing relative stay current in the lingo. Those occasions were best avoided by a scruffy young teenager, although a quick dip into the cake stand was de rigeur. Whilst yours truly failed miserably to meet the dress regulations for these occasions, the ladies would invariably be done up to the nines, usually with a cute bonnet perched on their immaculately coiffured bonces, small handbag and gleaming white gloves an essential accoutrement.
Tea was still an essential part of life in my Army days. The typical working day finished around 5pm, when all the young officers would retire to the Mess for a life-giving slug of builders’ brew and at least three slices of thickly buttered, preservative loaded, pre-sliced and mass produced white toast, weighed down with equally commercial raspberry jam. On high days and holidays there might even be a chunk of Victoria sponge which the late arrivals would probably miss out on. This heavenly repast would invariably be followed by a twenty minute cat nap in the deep faux leather club armchairs, that served as a rejuvenating prelude to the evening’s high jinx, which included a three or four course formal dinner at 8pm sharp. What healthy lives we led!
Whilst the institution of Tea seems largely a distant memory, the Grand Hotel in Eastbourne still serves a Savoy style spread for those with deep pockets and we do occasionally have special friends round on a Sunday for tea and crumpets and one of Alison’s delicious home made cakes. Her secret recipe fruit cake is the summit of indulgence. Happy days.
My thought was inspired by listening to BBC Radio 4, once the citadel of RP (Received Pronunciation) and listening to presenter after presenter, guest after guest, smudging their “t’s” as if they’re an inconvenient truth to be ignored and buried. The Great British T truly is dead in all its senses; well certainly mortally wounded anyway.
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