The scent of tea clings to the air like old perfume. Tins and bins and jars of tea — black, green, oolong, chamomile, masala, earl grey, and several herbal and flowery infusions — litter the floor and shelves. And in between, stacked rather precariously are a great number of tea cups and teapots, some together in sets or purposely separated and others individual loners. And yet, somehow, despite the disorderly array of the room, there is not a chip or crack in any of the porcelain or glass.
A great feat, indeed, considering their owner pays no mind or attention to their upkeep, sleeping the better part of the afternoon away dead to the world in a rather dreamless slumber until the kettle begins its familiar tune.
It’s an odd, little thing. Dreadfully ugly, too. But with a slap at its metallic, beaver-tail-like flap, the electronic bottom turns off, and the kettle shuts up.
“Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle,” the sleeping beauty sings in a groggy groan.
With a lazy roll, she’s about to continue her afternoon nap on the sisal rug, but she bumps — or rather, slightly taps with her forehead —a haphazardly stacked pile of six golden-rimmed teacups. One of her favorite sets, and so when it begins to topple away from her, she has no choice but to sit up and set the pile straight again.
Crisis diverted, but now she’s wide awake. What fun.
