Tea on the Terrace.

I was walking along Mill Lane today when I spied the Lady Bella’s mother working in her garden. We had a brief conversation, and then she said ‘I was just about to make some tea. Would you care to join me?’

I was naturally put on my guard immediately. I know of the gravitas which people of the more elevated class attach to the ritual of afternoon tea, and I was aware of the fact that my dress was hardly up to the occasion. I said so.

‘Why should that be a problem?’ she asked.

‘Well,’ I began, feeling slightly discomfited, ‘you are a bit posh, and I am aware that posh people attach some importance to such matters.’

‘What on earth makes you see me as posh?’

‘Your big house, your bearing, your mode of dress, your dulcet tones, and most of all your public school accent.’

‘I see. I think perhaps your perceptions are a little awry, Jeff. Or perhaps you’re joking. In either event, you’re welcome to take tea in your present attire.’

‘Do you have any muffins?’

‘No.’

‘Very well, then. I think the lack of muffins on your part might excuse the lack of a cravat on mine. I went to Dartmouth, you know. I understand these things.’

‘Very good. Come on, then.’

And then she smiled and led the way. She has a very nice smile, the Lady B’s mother. I think it’s the main reason I like her, in spite of the fact that I always feel guilty for no longer having a forelock long enough to tug in meaningful manner.

And none of this happened, of course. I haven’t walked along Mill Lane in over a year, and my left leg wouldn’t allow me to venture that far at the moment even if I wanted to. The little tale related above is a mere example of the untrodden tracks along which my mind wanders when it isn’t busy worrying about something. It’s why I began a career in writing seventeen years ago when all else had failed. And it gives my fingers good exercise when I’m unable to exercise much else.