Tea and Toast

I am fortunate enough to be in the sunshine this week, albeit on business. Yes it's the annual sales and marketing conference, this time in Anaheim, California. I won't tell you about the conference as it's all Top Secret, but I will let you in on the tea and toast situation.

As we all know, there is nothing better than a Nice Cup of Tea and a Sitdown. So every morning, ridiculously early, my colleagues and I report to the ballroom for breakfast.

The mostly veteran waiting staff attempt to herd us in a certain way, which has given reign to military speak about digging in and not advancing forward.

We then proceed to the lines of buffet: scrambled egg, eggs benedict, ham, cereal, oatmeal (as porridge is called) and waffles. But no toast.

Back at the table, we ask for toast. On the first day a glorious plate of toast arrived, enough for everyone. Hurrah! But yesterday, just two slices.

Meanwhile we have put our request in for tea.

Yesterday it arrived, nice colour, and we were all happy. Until we tasted it. Cinnamon?! It was some sort of weird fruit tea. The waitress was very apologetic saying she had used the wrong tea bags, and was kind enough to make us a new pot. But sadly we were getting told to move ourselves to the arena so we hardly had time to drink it.

At least now we have two BKMs  (best known methods): ask for toast for the table, and black tea also known as English breakfast tea,

See you soon!

Brassed Off

When I was young the five sure Signs of Ageing were:

1) Getting a mortgage

2) Wearing slippers

3) Irrational happiness at the idea of a cup of tea and a sitdown;

4) Perusing seed catalogues

5) Listening to brass bands

I now own up to all five, having today overcome my aversion to the brass band, previously sullied by Terry Wogan and the floral dance.

I was enthralled by the The Black Dyke Colliery Band on Aled Jones' show this morning.

The mournful timbre of the brass band is all the more evocative now as I recall the deserted mines and the dashed hopes of families mainly in the north and Wales. The brutal closure of the mines was one of the worst atrocities of the Thatcher government.

Check out the Black Dyke band at their website and on Spotify. You'll be pleasantly surprised, unless you're still young enough to be appalled by any of the Five Signs.

Brilliant bank holiday

What a great bank holiday Monday! And no, I don't mean that in the ironic sense. We haven't had a wet bank holiday for a while, and what a treat it was to have to stay indoors, away from the tedious chores of the garden or the threat of a bike ride or walk, to read or watch TV. And how thoughtful of the BBC to have provided quintessential bank holiday afternoon viewing, The Sound of Music.

I spent a happy couple of hours scrapbooking, although it was a little too cold to stay in the lean-to any longer. I then went back to the snigger fest that is my latest book, "A nice cup of tea and a sitdown."

This book is laugh out loud funny, but only in the British way. If you're not British, forget it. Firstly, you wouldn't get our obsession with tea, and the way it has to be made; and secondly, you wouldn't appreciate the chapters about different types of biscuit and their dunking capabilities.

I was thrilled to see my own personal favourite the jammie dodger had a suitably "A list" mention. When the Rover Selection was proudly brought out in the office for an agency visit, there was only ever one jammie dodger in the tin which I was primed to grab before someone else did.

I was pleased to see that the Tunnock's Wafer also had a splendid showing. I never really liked them but Grandma always had them in her house, along with Schloer and Woodpecker Cider. Sadly the Bandit did not get a mention. Does anyone remember them? A chocolate biscuit similar to a Club. (And yes, I sympathise with the writer of ANCOTAASD who bemoaned the changes that have blighted the Club).

I would imgaine if you were at a pop festival, a 10k race or in a tent, today's weather in the south would have been a little trying.

But if you were snug in your house with a fine cup of tea (no biscuit) and the promise of sausages for dinner, than a finer bank holiday could not be had.