I sat there idly dunking my Bourbon biscuit in my morning cuppa I was, momentarily, distracted by a news feature on Good Morning Britain – of which I can no longer remember. My lack of concentration was the cause of what happened next; three quarters of the biscuit fell into the sea of tea. Being held in the hot water for too long had evidently compromised the molecular integrity of the classic Bourbon.
This couldn’t be happening. It was the first biscuit. I hadn’t even tasted the tea. Now the level of liquid in my cup had risen due to the added mass of biscuit which was slowly disintegrating, laughing at me, as it drifted to the bottom of the cup. Why don’t biscuits float? It is one of the cruel realities of life. I stared at the bubbles popping up to the top as my hopes and biscuit dreams sunk seamlessly to the bottom.
Not on my watch. Oh no! I thought to myself “I will retrieve this cup of tea. I will not be defeated by a biscuit.”
In my moments of denial I failed to remember that tea, my friend, is a drink best served scorching hot. I also failed to take notice of the fact that we, as humans do not like to be burned. No, these things did not bother me as I plunged my index finger and thumb into my Moonpig picture mug (a gift from my lovely boyfiend) yet the kamikaze actions of my digits soon woke the neurons in my brain that are usually used for making logic decisions – of which this was not. A barrage of curses left my mouth (none of which I will repeat here) as my hand turned from white to pink to, eventually, an angry red.
Getting a spoon would be no use. By the time I had ran to the kitchen and back again the remaining biscuit would be too mushy to retrieve. I was going to have to persevere with my tea. I prayed to every available power source that my tea wouldn’t be tainted too much. That it may maintain some of that perfection that can only be found with a triangle T-Bag infused with PG Tips magic. However, the rising brown ring forming where the tea meets the cup was not looking too promising.
I tentatively lifted the cup, inspecting the aforementioned ring. I sniffed. It smelt like chocolate. I tasted. It tasted like chocolate. This normally wouldn’t be a problem. I love chocolate. It is one of my few vices. But I hate, with the passion of a thousand suns, hot chocolate. My tea, my oh so yummy tea, now tasted like death. Woe is the cup of tea. Woe is the biscuit.
There was only one thing for it. Rather than sitting in my miasma of depression, holding on to my tainted tea, I opted to accept this modern day tragedy and made myself a new cup. This time I kept a closer eye on my biscuits.