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I blush to have to confess something to you, Dear Reader.

Candia- truly-you can tell me anything.

Yes, and it will be round Suttonford in a couple of hours.

No, please don’t be cynical.  It’s not like you.

(It is actually, but hey!)

Well, Carrie, Brassie, Clammie and I had tea yesterday.


I know.  Don’t be shocked.  We haven’t forsaken Costamuchamoulah

coffee shop. It’s just nice to sit quietly in a friend’s house and watch her

perform a tea ceremony.  So soothing.

Okay, so you wrote a poem about the experience?

No, not exactly.  I remembered that I had one in my file, so here it is:


(That’s from The Rape of the Lock by Alexander Pope, isn’t it?)

Shut up and read!


If there is a way to take tea you know

how.  It is something to do with the pot:

essentially silver.  Weak Earl Grey’s flow,

with its exotic scent of Bergamot,

is dispensed by your deft, be-rubied hand

into Spode blue and white cups which you use

always.  The William Morris tea pot stand

absorbs the heat while you hold court; amuse

me with your anecdotes.  Kitchenesque is

your period.  A background Cona drips

its homely memento mori.  For this

is an expansive moment while we sip

and sit, straining Time still.  We lean elbows

on a peacock-plumed Liberty oilcloth,

whose preening practicality yet shows

your craving for an aesthetic.  We both

counsel take, give; sacramentally eat

a forbidden bun-two latter day Eves

who do not try to read success, defeat,

by auguring the dregs of drained tea leaves.

We know that Life is hasty, brutish, brief-

the beautiful and fine are what we need,

to ease our pains and soften all our grief:

this ceremony necessary creed.

Spode blue and white trio with Italian Garden design