Plastic is everywhere, including my gut. I’m not talking about microfilaments recently discovered in bottled water and coke. I drink neither. I’m talking about teabags. Plastic in teabags. Who’da thunk? I drink gallons of the stuff, cup after cup, and yet I should have known. The rhododendrons did their best.
Rhododendrons don’t like tea as such, but they thrive on the tannic acid – which is fine if we’re talking about loose tealeaves fresh from a drained pot. But we’re talking teabags here, and now I understand why they never seemed to compost but instead piled up like small mountains of brown withered skulls at the base of each plant.
They must have seen me coming, the rhododendrons, and groaned— What’s the fool doing now?— winced as the mountains grew bigger.
Since I’ve seen the light, tea drinking has become a whole new experience. I’m drinking the tea my mother served before the bag raised its hideous head, and rhododendrons no longer groan on seeing me coming. There were some teething problems – the want of a tea cosy – vital if you’re serving tea from a pot that loses heat quickly – and here is one made by a thoughtful friend. She also made me an apron, which, forgive me, I’m not going to wear here.
But the experience of ‘real’ tea instead of the dust served in those small, plasticised bags. Five large desert spoons of ‘Assam’ or ‘Strong English Breakfast’ in a warmed pot, will give you three cups of excellent tea. My blood is buzzing after the third cup and I’m set up for the day. My rhododendrons are happy too.