I do love a decent cuppa. One negative aspect of living in Germany is the lack of a decent tea bag, which is rather ironic considering the national obsession with tea.
The pharmacies, I am convinced, are stocked with more varieties of tea than actual drugs.
Unfortunately, stocks don't include such luxuries as Tetley's or Yorkshire Gold (sighs) but a seemingly infinite number of herbal/fruity affairs.
These, they will endeavour to assure you, provide a "natural" cure for any number of ailments. If you are feeling brave and insist on real drugs, you must beg and plead whilst balling your fists to avoid taking the box of Papaya Aloe Blossom they are desperately trying to force into them. Should you convince them to sell you a packet of paracetamol rather than some peppermint concoction you can consider yourself triumphant.
Those of you who believe in the healing power of herbal tea, I have tried it. One has little choice here. But I believe in Tetley. I believe in it so much, I buy monster bags of the stuff, imported from UK at extortionate prices.
I wasn't aware of my apparent enslavement to the humble teabag until Finje shocked me into admission.
Over the last months, she has made mornings more acceptable. Until recently she would wake around 6.30am sharing her joy at the break of a new dawn by entering our room announcing her presence with some form of song.
Lately, her pre-breakfast behaviour has altered. She plays in her room, until we wake. Rather pleasant and not even a result of Whippet Mother discipline. All on her own volition!
Last weekend though she took things to a whole new level.
We were stirred from slumber by our four-year-old daughter carrying a large tray, frowning in concentration. On it were two cups of tea, four pieces of toast and a bowl of museli with milk. As we stared through disbelieving, sleep filled eyes, she explained that my cup had two sugars and papa's only one, "How you like it!"
Sipping the hot tea, looking at Finje's proud, beaming face, I fought a mental battle. Admonish for grappling with a kettle full of scorching water or praise for an amazing feat and act of thoughtfulness. As I struggled, it occurred to me I had indeed ample opportunity to study the fine art of brewing up. Quizzing her on how she managed it, she nonchalantly informed me,
"I watched you. You make seventy-three-five-hundred cups a day!"
(Need to practice those numbers)