“Have a cup of tea,” she’d say. The British magic bullet. Drown any sorrow with a good cuppa. Mend heartache. Cure sickness. Solve World Wars with a strong brew and a dunky biscuit.
My Mum; tea advocate. Averaging ten cups a day. Favourite cup. Favourite brand. Childhood memories of small cups of sweet milky tea. Bathtubs full brewed over a lifetime to share with family, friends, acquaintances old and new. And me.
And then she died.
We placed Yorkshire tea bags on her coffin instead of flowers. She’d have loved that.
A cuppa didn’t help that day.
I drink coffee now.