I don’t like it too white, I perfect it nearly black so if anyone asks I will say “nearly black tea please.” “What does that mean?” They enquire but its quite simple, a dash a milk, a very little and slight dash, no more no less. I’m not being racist, for how can one be a tea racist? For those, like my grandparents, who like a very white tea, are they members of the klu klux klan? Drinking only very white tea under their bed sheeted eyes. How nasty, how dark. In all honestly I can drink three to five cups of tea in a day. Is that obsession? Maybe its normality in this tea-coffee-drinking age but if it was say three to five milligrams of heroin a day, its more than obsession its an addiction. But that’s different. I can defend my tea stained teeth and my morning shakes, the need for that warmth to trickle down my throat, fill up my spine and soul and gain some spiritual enlightenment from the bottom of my tea cup. My cupboard is overflowing with teas, from the everyday English breakfast to peppermint, raspberry, cranberry, Moroccan mint, lemon, green tea, camomile, chai, cookies and cream, dandelion root. The exotic tea-bag tags and crisp packaged labels promise relaxation, qualities, health benefits and free-trading conditions. Once I wondered aloud while at a pub on a Saturday night whether I could purchase a cup of nearly black tea, a friend on hearing this exclaimed, “if you do they’ll kick you out for being such a dork!” So social etiquette appears that a tea is fine with a bickie but not an ok replacement for a pint of lager on a Saturday night. Does that make me a tea junkie, preferring sober refreshment over googly eyed liquid gold? Perhaps. All I know is that for now I remain a legal tea enthusiast who gets on especially well with the oldies, for they do not judge me and my tea needs.