Another bellish Friday

 

For some reason I got an email from Fiona after she read last night's blog entry that went like this:  Choke, splutter, snork!!!!!

            I guess she must not think much of my chances of learning to knit around corners either . . . 

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I should also clarify my position on iced tea, which is that back in the days when I could mainline caffeine all day* I used to drink iced tea too.  I brewed it like proper tea and when it had cooled off, transferred it into a pitcher and put it in the refrigerator.**  But when reality and the smell of burning neurons began to get obtrusive and I had to cut back to two or three average-sized mugs a day, the iced tea went.  This is partly because my idea of acceptable iced tea was twice as strong as my idea of acceptable hot tea, and my hot tea tends to make strong men blanch.***  Sigh.  Mortal limitations, what a ratbag. 

reading_fox wrote:

 but try finding somewhere in this medieval English town in the heart of Tory Hampshire that will make you a decent cup of tea.

Or pretty much anywhere else in the country. It is depressing. I can recommend Betty's tea shop in York, should anyone ever find their way up there.

Now all I need is a B&B that takes hellhounds.  It is totally weird that Britain has lost its way on the subject of tea.  Or, for that matter, on the subject of hellhounds and other animals.  Britain still has the reputation of being a nation of animal lovers but . . . no.  Wrong.  Granted that the number of idiot owners is discouraging, but that's part of the picture, isn't it?  And the result is that critters are welcome very nearly nowhere.†  I've had a moan here before about the number of kids who are being raised to be (a) afraid of animals—and while there are a few, I think it's a very few, kids who are 'naturally' afraid of animals, most of them have picked it up from the society around them and (b) clueless about how to approach/avoid animals.  The ones that make me despair are the ones who scream Don't let it near me! and dance up and down waving their hands or similar—something very attractive to a friendly and curious critter.  

. . . I did have tea in the Ritz once. I wasn't that impressed with the actual tea. Large silver teapots were lovely, but loose tea was left steeping in them for far too long resulting in a bitter brew even before it reached you. And they go cold quickly.

Tea at the Ritz used to be my favourite ridiculously overpriced going-out treat.  Still cheaper than a good dinner at a London restaurant and you got home a lot earlier.††  I'm almost wondering if you were there on a bad day.  It's true the silver teapots go cold way too quickly but the tea in my experience was always very good quality and . . . well, I like stewed tea, so I'm not a good judge of it at the end of the afternoon, but one of my interesting theories is that good tea doesn't stew as in . . . stew.  Stewed PG Tips is so bitter it eats holes in ceramic teapots and will kill you, rendering your organs not worth transplanting despite that card you carry in your wallet, but stewed golden tippy organic single estate something or other just becomes more, ahem, intensely itself.  

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I didn't sing for Oisin (again) today because the Mutant Virus has taken up residence in my throat and while I only sound faintly scratchy every now and then I have laryngitis for about two words and I figure I'll just have a nice rest for a few days.†††  The tea was excellent, however and the music . . . wow.  Oisin was playing Louis Vierne's http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Louis_Vierne second [organ] symphony and . . . wow.  He's played some of it before but he was taking it apart for me today so I could hear the individual lines, and have I said WOW?  WOW.‡ 

            But I was dreading tower practise because Penelope, who is mostly a good friend except when she drags Niall off on holiday, has dragged Niall off on holiday‡‡ which meant I was in charge.  The first thing that happened was that there were only three of us.  Ugggh.  But if it had remained three we could have gone home and I wouldn't have to be in charge of anything.  Then there were four, which meant minimus.  Ugggh.  We were just failing to grapple with Reverse Canterbury—everything happens so fast on only four bells—when a fifth person turned up and saved us.  Five bells—doubles.  Yaaay.  So I, daring greatly, and there have to be some perks to being the boss, called my little touch of Grandsire from the five—the fifth bell—which is big and heavy enough that you have to get your dodges pretty well right because you're not going to be able to yank it back into line if you get it wrong.  Not to mention that with only five ringers and no tenor-behind (sixth bell) any doubles method is a lot more unstable.  And, if you're conducting, you have to remember to call your bobs and singles at the right moment.  Victory.  Yaaay.‡‡‡ 

            And then Edward showed up and the evening took a significantly upward turn.  Edward's been in the States§ forever and only got back this week.  Edward can ring anything, so we suddenly had critical mass with Vicky, Dorothy, Roger and Edward . . . and only Leo and me to muck things up.  I got through both a touch of Stedman doubles and a touch of St Clements, even if this was largely the result of tactful calling on Edward's part.  And everyone told me what a good job I had done running the evening.  Snork.  You can sure recognise a bunch of people who don't want the flying fickle finger of fate pointing at them at the next annual general meeting and election of officers. 

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* I used to get through up to ten double-sized mugs of quadruple-strong black tea a day.  And I wonder why my digestion is frelled^ and my nerves are in shreds.^^ 

^ Well, my digestion has always been frelled.  I think it was born frelled.  

^^ I was also born looking for things to overreact to.  AAAAUGH!  Air!  AAAAUGH!  Light!  AAAAUGH!  Other people!  AAAAAUGH!  Most of us outgrow this stage.  

** If it's hot I want pure mint or pure black and any mixture is disgusting, but black iced tea with mint was my favourite.  

*** This part hasn't changed.  When Oisin makes our Friday afternoon pot of tea he makes it extra-strong, hastily pours out the first mug for himself and . . . I drink the rest.  By the bottom of the pot my eyes are getting kind of bloodshot. 

† Although there is no attempt to control everyone throwing their cats outdoors to destroy other people's gardens, leave crap everywhere, shred awnings and lawn furniture, kill endangered songbirds, and have noisy arguments under bedroom windows at unsuitable hours.  One of the reasons for going to bed at dawn is that you have thus missed being woken up by a cat fight.   

†† Also if you go to the final sitting you can just stay on and buy a glass of champagne.  Go you neurons.  First you're frizzled by the tea and then you're slapped silly by champagne.^  Wheeeee. 

^ The menu has changed over the years however.  I think you can get a champagne tea whenever you like now.  

††† I don't want a nice few days' rest, and I am going to my voice lesson on Monday.   Not only because Peter left his walking stick at Tabitha's and I can pick it up more or less on the way. 

‡ The lines are amazing:  usually when you listen to a line that is meant to go with other lines you mainly hear the incompleteness.  Not here.  Vierne was an organist and mainly wrote music for organ, but he also wrote some choral music.  Hmmmmmm. 

‡‡ To another outlandish place, Dorking or Barking or Wapping or Leatherhead orPatagonia or something. 

‡‡‡ Except for the little matter that I always forget when it ends.  Fortunately everybody else knows the touch I was calling so they were going to come into rounds whether I remembered to call it or not. 

§ Speaking of outlandish places