Byron hated tea. He hated its bitter taste and the tannic dryness it inspired in the mouth. He hated the smell of it, an aroma like soured wood pulp, and he hated the stains it left in his cups and on his tablecloths. Yet he drank it because he absolutely adored teatime. He loved the little sandwiches and their excessive variety, loved the sugar cubes and their precious tongs. He loved the jewels of jelly and the crowns of toast.
