Drinking Tea in Bed

One of life’s great pleasures is sitting up in bed on a Sunday morning, drinking tea and reading. Or thinking. Or writing. It’s when I read novels, think about things, write for pleasure. Do. Very. Little. It’s time to let my mind freewheel, gently.

Even in the quiet suburb that is Lismore, it’s quieter on Sunday. My room faces south, so it’s cooler. And breezier. One Sunday morning I wished for soft flowy curtains that would waft on that breeze. Spotlight, later that day, had ones exactly the right ones, and on sale. I love those curtains – their only purpose is to waft, they do it well.

I’m a cup-and-saucer person. On Sunday I use the best ones – tea really does taste better from fine china. I’ve collected them from all over. Tea pots have their season too. Currently it’s an op-shop find from a year ago. I think it would have been worth something, back in the day. But its second life, cherished, seems more special with its life-adjusted veneer.

Today’s tea is Sri Lankan organic black from Lismore’s bulk food shop Affordable Wholefoods. Sometimes there’s a croissant or toast. Occasionally grapes or cheese.

Always there’s the delicious sense of time enough for everything. For a long moment on Sunday morning, drinking tea and thinking, it’s like time stands still . But then the wind will change, a phone call will be made, or received. A plan actioned, a lunch attended, a garden attended to.

Or maybe I’ll simply take my book to another part of the house and have a second Sunday morning. Tomorrow, my Monday will be easier, and fresher, and I’ll get twice as much done than if I’d worked today.

a photo of a silver plated tea pot and a patterned cup and saucer on a wooden tray on a counterpane.