A woman knocked on my door early this morning. She was holding a blackberry bramble and a pair of secateurs in her hands. Apparently, she was renting our holiday cottage at Crwsyddig and wanted me to clear the footpath close to the cottage.
I’d just made myself a cup of tea, so I asked her in and enquired if she’d like a cup. Life would have been much easier if she’d refused my offer, but no, she said she’d love a cup.
Now I blame it on struggling the day before, trying to update the description of my book series using a code generator. It’s a very simple process but yesterday nothing went right and it fried my brain.
Any way, I boiled a kettle of water and attempted to make tea. I spotted a bramble growing from the kitchen wall, which was vaguely unnerving as I thought we’d cured undergrowth penetrating the walls of the old house when we’d doused the bramble with weedkiller and re-pointed the outside.
The tea looked odd – sort of yellow, thick, and lumpy. I’d used custard powder instead of milk. I fetched a new cup and tried again. This time it was thin and pale. I’d forgotten the tea bag and used coffee whitening. I was trying to make conversation and just couldn’t do the two things at once.
Then the woman’s husband arrived and him being interested in motorcycles, I introduced him to my husband and went back to my tea making. Attempt three! Looking in the cup, I could see a red pepper, an overripe tomato, half a dozen chillis, and some cubes of crumbly cheese. Now, this definitely wasn’t going to make a cup of tea! I’m questioning my sanity here.
By now, my husband and the woman’s husband had arrived, and I had two more cups of tea to make. I refilled the kettle and fetched more fresh cups. I was worried about not having enough coffee at this point.
This time I managed to get tea bags and water into the cups, and just as I was adding milk, I realised I should have asked how my guests liked their tea. Please, don’t let me have to start again. I was running out of cups.
‘Milk and sugar, please’ was the answer.
Thank the lord for that! I turned to my husband and said, ‘This is like one of my bloody stupid dreams.’
That was when I woke up.
With dreams like these, I should be an author. Oh, I am…
Note: We don’t and never have had a holiday cottage at Crwsyddig, and the red pepper was was too large to fit in the cup… My husband says I need psychoanalysing.