It happened to be a Sunday afternoon in our house in Coventry, although I’m reliably informed it was also Sunday afternoon everywhere else in England. Mary and I had the need of a warm beverage.

I went forth to the kitchen, that is, I walked to our one kitchen. We don’t have four kitchens. Nor was I in a queue of people trying to get to our kitchen.

Upon setting the kettle to boil, and placing our mugs ready to receive the brewed tea, I, with the reverence earned by such an item, pulled forward our teapot.

“I will provide you with three tea bags. One for Mary and I, and one for your good self,” I told it.

It smiled a polite smile. I then proceeded to open the tea caddy.

PANIC!!

RUSH AROUND SOMEWHAT LIKE A HEADLESS CHICKEN (BUT ONE WITH AN EMPTY TEA CADDY).

I stood frozen to the spot. Spots are hard to stand on, frozen or not. But stand there, I did. But the teapot saved me.

“Stop Panicking, you fool. Mary keeps reserve tea bags in the pantry.”

Of course! I slapped my forehead with the spatular hanging on the wall for such times when I make a blunder. And proceeded to the pantry. And discovered the reserve tea bags.

I carried them like precious jewels to the kitchen. And whipped open the box with a flourish (I still don’t exactly know what flourishes are or where they come from) and placed three tea bags into the waiting pot.

“WHAT the HELL are they?”

“Sorry?”

“I said: WHAT the HELL are they?”

The teapot was glowering at me. Which is like glowing but with and added “er”.

“Er, tea bags?”

“NO. They are NOT tea bags. Remove them. NOW.”

I was baffled. “They are! Look! I got them from the reserve…”

PANIC.

Fear and revulsion flooded over me in that instant. The tea bags. They were ROUND. Not SQAURE. How could that be?

Everyone knows that round tea bags are a con to make you use and therefore buy more of them. They do not steep correctly on account of their sliding around the edges of the pot. Rather than colliding with it and producing a strong brew.

I slithered to the floor of the kitchen, a quivering wreck of a man. I’d had a complete tea trauma breakdown.

Mary walked into the kitchen. Observed me quivering on the floor. And frowned.

“What are you doing?”

“The… tea bags… They… are… ROUND!”

She looked at the box I’d fetched from the pantry. Rolled her eyes, A good roll, she got two sixes. Then, walked to the pantry.

She arrived back in the kitchen moments later, carrying a tin. She popped open the lid, and held out a SQUARE tea bag.

“You daft sod, you got those old things I meant to throw away. I keep the reserve bags in the tin.”

I staggered to my feet and removed the offending round monstrosities from the teapot. It gave a displeased harumph. I placed three square teabags into it. Then, it sighed and smiled.

Mary looked at me. “Right, you numpty. Can you make the tea now?”

I nodded. Still uncertain that I was able to speak again after the shock of the unmentionables.

I reboiled the kettle, that sighed at me and scowled because it doesn’t like boiling more than once per five minutes. Then, brewed the tea.

After the right amount of steeping time, I poured and took Mary’s into the living room for her. She smiled her thanks and I returned to the kitchen.

“You DARE shove those things in me again and I shall refuse to brew the tea!”

The teapot glowered (glowed but with the ‘er’) at me. I apologised profusely and took my tea in to join Mary.

She was engrossed in a programme called “Meet, Marry, Wrong Tea, Murder”.

PANIC.