I did a very, very British thing today. The single most British thing I have probably ever done, and I have to tell you I am an excellent queuer.
We all make coffee/tea rounds for each other at work, as I am employed by a small company with an even smaller kitchen and more than two people in it at once is disastrous, hence, make a drink for your office if you’re making one for yourself. And today, someone made me a cup of tea.
The horror. The outrage. The disaster. (I’m joking. Mostly). I don’t drink tea, to the dismay of, well, almost every other Brit. Every other non-Brit, at that, devastated that I don’t fit the stereotype. I will drink some teas. Mint tea, I am a fan of. Earl Grey, now and then, is cracking. I just really don’t enjoy your average cuppa, with apologies to Queen and Country for my treachery.
The trouble is, being British despite my tea-defect, I didn’t dare say ‘Oh sorry, I actually asked for coffee’. I didn’t dare try to pop back downstairs and subtly re-make a drink to my own specifications. I certainly didn’t dare just leave an entire cup of tea sitting on my desk to go cold, like a beacon going ‘WRONG WRONG WRONG’. So I drank it.
Oh, the Britishness. Forced into drinking tea because I was too polite to do otherwise. I might end up drinking it regularly, if my nice, kind, tea-making colleague keeps forgetting that I’ve screeched ‘COFFEE PLEASE’ down the stairs. I’ll end up liking the stuff, like how my mother has basically brainwashed my tastebuds into accepting sprouts. The Tea will get us all in the end.
If anyone’s interested in how my not-Resolutions are going, it’s a mixed bag. I haven’t posted any oh-no-why-does-my-chin-do-that selfies on instagram, but that’s more because I haven’t had cause to take a selfie, not because I despise my own face.
I’m reading a little more frequently, although some evenings I do still head for scrolling instagram or watching Youtube. But I think that’s probably okay, variety is the spice of life, bla bla. I’ve finished a book, which was alright but not spectacular. I think the trouble is that I currently have a four-page Word doc consisting of books I’d like to read, into which I whack any and every book title that ever catches my eye and then forget about them until my Mum buys me a few for birthdays/Christmases, by which time I have no idea what the book contains or why I wanted to read it. This has led to some great reads, some average reads, and so far just the one book that I’ve completely given up on halfway through. It’s amusing having every new book be a surprise. My ever-growing list is open to suggestions!
My most successful decision has been the exercise. So far I’m making good use of the money spent on a gym membership. Mum and I did a core conditioning class on Sunday, which in and of itself was pretty grim, but we did it straight after a swim, which was a Serious Error. Laughing still hurts. I’ve also signed up to do a class every Tuesday evening called, hilariously, ‘Clubbercise’. We all get given glowsticks, they turn off the main lights and we do aerobic dance in disco strobe lighting. It’s as bizarre and wonderful as it sounds, but it’s also an absolute killer. One of the tracks is basically four variations of jumping for three and a half minutes, by the end of which I genuinely fear for my lungs. It’s great.
So I’m trucking along with my New Year New Me, although I’m not sure at what point it becomes This Year This Me. I suppose maybe it’s the point at which I don’t crawl out of the gym and sit in my car until the worst of the blotchiness has gone down and my skin is no longer so hot that I can’t put my glasses on to drive home. That seems like a reasonable benchmark.
Until next time, K.