Being British, one might assume I have an innate understanding of our national affection for a nice cup of tea. Tea is offered in any and all situations in Britain: a family get-together, a celebration, a loss, a new baby, a gossip fest, and let’s not forget heartbreak. Anytime one of these events occurs, the first thing to do is always to offer a cup of tea. Seriously, if the Queen herself showed up at your door, you’d probably offer her a cuppa before asking what she’s doing there.
I remember when I was 14 years old, on a trip with my school band touring Europe. I played the saxophone—not exactly well, much to my parents’ dismay. You see, I was far more interested in boys than in mastering the sax. Spoiler alert: my parents’ dreams of having a musical prodigy in the family were dashed the moment puberty hit.
I was innocently in love with another saxophone player, Billy Howard, who was the very reason I took up the sax in the first place. Billy, at 16, seemed so much older and more mature than the other boys. I thought he was amazing and followed him around like a lovesick puppy, much to his annoyance. To me, he was perfect: his smile made my stomach do somersaults, and his eyes twinkled with constant mischief. To him, I was just a silly, young girl with a penchant for tripping over her own feet.
I made sure I knew his daily routine while we were traveling and always managed to be wherever he was. Early one morning, as we were headed by boat to Holland, I was waiting for a cup of tea when I saw the boy who had stolen my heart. I sat down with my cuppa, hoping he would join me, or at least sit nearby. But no, he chose another table with his back to me. Each time this happened, my heart broke a little more. I think I lost count of how many pieces it was in by the end of that trip.
I sat alone, sipping my tea, and for a moment, all my heartache melted away. It was the perfect cup of tea—milky, strong, and faultless in its simplicity. As the ship rocked with the waves and I savored my brew, the world felt like a better place, and I was simply happy to exist in that sweet moment. I closed my eyes and forgot about Billy Howard, seeing only the ocean and tasting that milky, bitter goodness of the perfect hot drink. That morning, my heart changed, and I understood what a cup of tea meant to the British. It wasn’t just a drink; it was an emotional reset button in a cup.
Since that day, I’ve tried to replicate that perfect cup of tea without success. I’ve had a few close calls but nothing that transported me back to that moment like that cup did. The tea was unforgettable; I can still distinctly remember its taste and the comforting warmth on my hands. But I can’t even remember what Billy Howard looked like. All I remember is a vague impression of teenage angst and a lot of saxophone practice.
Now, whenever a friend is in need for any reason, the first thing I say is, “Would you like a cup of tea?” Because if there’s one thing I learned from unrequited love, it’s that a perfect cup of tea can mend even the most shattered of hearts—or at least make you forget about them for a while.
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