On Tea

I'm told boiling the kettle twice makes a dull cup of tea, something about nitrates. Meanwhile, Orwell wrote that the water should be actually boiling at the moment of impact. What the fuck do I do then, if my hand isn't resting on the handle at the moment of first boil? My only remaining option is to pour away my poor first effort and try again.

Wouldn't it be nice to keep the water company on it's full journey from tap to steam? It would actually be quite wonderful. It's a shame that I would need to be much more content inside my own mind for that. How fucked up is it that standing still for that amount of time triggers feelings of guilt? I should be using this tiny window of time for something productive. There isn't a God. Because if there was, omnipotence and omnibenevolence would combine so that the time taken to prepare a tea bag, mug, and milk would not be considerably shorter than the boiling time of a cheap kettle.

Fuck it. I'll just reboil. It's not like I'd even notice the difference. I'm not a tea connoisseur. I drink it every day but. I'm not a tea connoisseur. I just drink it because it's warm. And I like the taste. And to give me something to do with my hands. And because I like drugs, but not so much that I drink coffee. And because I'm a beacon of national pride. Okay, it's good to blow off some steam, but let's not get carried away with that last one. I need to simmer down with a cuppa.

My mother I can recall perfectly. Her face was always red and sore-looking from bending at the fire, she spent her life making tea to pass the time and singing snatches of old songs to pass the meantime.