I’ve always understood that a cup of tea could hold just about anything: heartbreak, celebration, old friends, new beginnings, difficult news, awkward silences. It was the drink for every mood and moment. “Pop the kettle on” is still, to me (and to most British people), a way of saying everything will be alright.
Growing up, milky breakfast tea was how moments began and ended. It was what we drank first thing in dressing gowns and after school, still in our uniforms. It was shared across the kitchen table, passed between hands in loud chatter. To me, tea meant warmth, comfort and family. It marked the ordinary moments that somehow held everything.
Years later, in 2017, I found myself sitting on the floor of a beautiful, tranquil space near London Bridge. Outside, the city was still buzzing, but in this room the lights were low, the air was thick with incense, and woollen socks padded softly across the wooden floor. Somewhere nearby, a kettle hummed quietly.
It was my first time at a tea …
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