For my last birthday, I received the following presents.
1. From flat mates: three different types of tea leaves from Bettys, and biscuits.
2. From my best friend: a tea pot, with cats on… for one. (Dangerous item, kindly given.) He also gave me yet more biscuits and a selection of afternoon tea.
3. From my Godmother: a mug with my name on it.
4. From my other best friend: a meerkat mask and a pen shaped like a pig.
5. From my parents: two books on Jane Austen.
My birthday itself was a great day. A group of friends and I went to into town, and tried to kill ourselves. I ended the evening being sick in the Willow toilets after strawpedo-ing a VK. There’s nothing that says ‘I am ready to be an adult’ like having your face hanging in the bowl of a seat-less toilet, whilst you squat, knees apart, on a floor that sticks lovingly to your shins, behind a door that won’t shut, so everyone can watch you whilst they bemoan sex problems to strangers. (In retrospect, perhaps I should have been more concerned about the sticky floors). This was, I knew, a great way to turn twenty. I was proving myself fun loving, daring (sexy??? No. I was confused.) and frankly, I was proud. Although even then I knew that when the time came to repeat this story, I’d be replacing the VK with a mixture of tequila and absinth or ‘Withnail and I’ style lighter fuel.
This was my rebellion. Not your standard immature teenage ‘I’m an adult now’ rebellion. No. This was my immature (although no longer teenage), ‘please God, I’m not 85, fuck off with the biscuits, the tea and the cats,’ rebellion. The presents from my nearest and dearest (the bastards) told a depressing story in which I’d leap-frogged off my exciting, youthful, teenager lily pad, and landed, slippery green limbs in chaos, into the slime of lonely old woman… with bad, tea stained teeth, and an over familiarity with the Compare the Market adverts. Naturally, as any sane person would have done, I put on my sluttiest dress, made out publicly, drank LOADS of alcohol (…some alcohol) and was sick in front of strangers.
The next morning was spent in the style of any self confident, liberated, sexy young woman; comparing this wild night with the time I was sick in Ziggys, the time my friend was sick in Vudu and the other time my friend was sick while lying on my stomach. And then I sobered up. Even now, in the dead of night, I’m sometimes woken by the memory of Willow germs clambering over my semi-conscious body in their search for a host.
The honest truth is, my friends think I’m a Jane Austen loving, tea drinking, biscuit eating fanatic, who would definitely appreciate a meerkat mask, because I AM a Jane Austen-loving, tea drinking, biscuit eating fanatic. My alter-ego, the Willow puker, had a pretty short shelf life.
This is why I have decided to write a blog on my favourite thing: tea, and my second favourite things: tea rooms, in my favourite/conveniently local place: York. My friends know me best, even if they do force me to strawpedo a bottle of luminous blue crap every now and again, or tell me no one will notice the sick in my hair.
It’s going to work like this: I’ll revisit many of the tea rooms I hold dear to me and hopefully many, many more I’m yet to discover, and I’m going to rate them, Top Trumps style. I will give points for the following:
Tea Pots:
Scones and other available cakes, although I’ll predominantly be eating scones:
Character of Tea Room:
Kitchness of Tea Room: (Harry Potter’s Umbridge interior decorating style not appreciated)
(am contemplating rating attractiveness of staff, feel I’d better not.)
Total Awesomeness:
I can’t wait to start putting yum things in my tummy, and not spitting them back out. To my friends – thank you so much for my presents. I use them all the time. Especially the mask.