Just don’t offer columnist Hannah Jones a cup of tea if you don’t understand what’s important in life
There are grand theories about what holds a society together – shared values, functioning institutions, the slow, invisible work of history knitting us into something resembling cohesion. Failing that, a nation collectively holding its breath, hoping Wales remember how to finish a try.
But if we’re honest, it’s something far simpler and infinitely more dependable: a cup of tea.
Tea, in its quiet, unassuming way, is a kind of social glue. It asks almost nothing of us and in return offers comfort, structure and a pause in a world that’s forgotten how to have a proper whiff. It’s the reflex that kicks in long before you’ve processed the news: good, bad, catastrophic, or just a bit s***.
Somewhere, someone is already saying, “I’ll pop the kettle on, mun,” and with the flick of a switch, the world becomes fractionally more manageable.
I bloody love tea. Not in a casual, “oh go on then” way, but with a loyalty bordering on devotional that’s steeped into my emotional infrastructure.
Tea is as adaptable as a Swiss Army knife, only less pleased with itself. There’s tea to soothe you. Tea to help you think. Tea to stop you thinking altogether. Tea to warm you. Tea to steady you. Tea to remind you that you’re still here, even if you’d rather be somewhere else.
There is tea for grief – the quiet, wordless kind taken in slow, stop‑the‑clocks sips.
And then there are the cups you remember. The one pressed into your hands at a kitchen table where the lino curled at the edges like it was attempting to pack up and move to England. The one that tasted better than it had any right to because of who made it, or when, or why. The fact that it came in a chipped mug declaring, “You don’t have to be mad to live here… but it helps” which was less a joke and more a local ordinance.
Tea often stands in for language when words fall short. It says: “I love you.” It says: “I know.” It says: “I haven’t got the faintest idea what to say, so I’m going to do the only useful thing I can think of and make you a cuppa – and no, it’s not going to be that matcha muck in this house.” It is, in its own modest way, an act of care or a tiny domestic sacrament.
Which is why the specifics of it can feel oddly sacred. Personal. Non‑negotiable. And this is where it can all go horribly wrong too.
Although tea will meet you wherever you are, I have very clear ideas about how it should meet me. So clear, in fact, that I rarely drink it outside the safety of my own home. Partly because I don’t have the nerve. Partly because I don’t have a handbag big enough to lug around my own bone china. But mostly because I lack the resilience to be handed a disappointing cwtch up in a cup and pretend it’s fine.
Coffee, meanwhile, occupies a very different space in my life. I can endure a bad one with the kind of stoicism usually reserved for minor injustices, like finding a no‑smoking sign on your cigarette break if I were more Alanis Morissette about stuff.
I can sip it politely, even if it’s missing key components like sugar or milk, as a bad one doesn’t unsettle me. I can convince myself I’m enjoying it if necessary. I might even construct a small internal narrative to get through it, like I’m a cinematic drifter hunched over a tin mug beside a campfire, the drink dreadful but the mood moody.
But I cannot, ever, bring myself to down a bad cup of tea.
Which is why I simply don’t order it. Anything less than lovely feels like an affront – to the drink, to my nature, and to anyone who’s ever said: “Fancy a cuppa?” Possibly the three best words in the English language, and I do include “Gatland is free” in that.
Because nobody has ever said “shall I fire up the Nespresso and you pick a pod as it’s obviously YOUR day today”, have they?
Coffee is theatre. Tea is truth. And those three words aren’t a question, they’re a covenant.
So yes, I am a tea snob. But not in the way people usually mean. I’m not interested in tasting notes or provenance or whether the leaves were harvested under a waxing moon by someone who’s had a sound bath with Charlotte Church in Laura Ashley’s old house. I’m not looking for a story. I’m looking for consistency. Reliability. A cup that quietly does what it’s supposed to do without demanding a standing ovation.
Which is why Fortnum & Mason can keep their rose‑and‑violet nonsense, and Tetley can bog off with their 60 “indulgent” blends. If I want gingerbread, I’ll buy biscuits and dunk them, which only goes to prove that you cannot have your cake and drink it.
The Cup Of Tea Test (copyright me) is also what anybody who knows me will pull out as a kind of shorthand for cleanliness. Let me explain.
Not so long ago, I told somebody, without a moment’s hesitation, that I have a peanut allergy. For good measure, I added out of nowhere that I’m also gluten-free. I’m neither.
I can only apologise to all of you living with these conditions, but I was under considerable pressure at the time.
Detailed lie after exaggerated lie came tumbling out of my gob because some new friends had invited us over for dinner. But after a recent recce, I can safely say I don’t want to go to their house to sit down let alone have them cook for me. Worse, offer to make me a cuppa.
That’s because it’s more than a little bit ych a fi if such a description exists. I discovered this when we were asked to pop over to water their plants. Now, of course, I could have filled the watering can from the outside tap. But I’m not my mother’s daughter for nothing.
My husband, Posh Paws, headed in first. Like most things – such as showers on holidays, so brainbox can work out which way’s cold before I strip off and come a cropper – I send him in to suss it out.
Places and spaces also have to pass my Cup Of Tea Test. It’s quite simple really: there’s no revision involved, no exam at the end, just a quick visual and olfactory sounding out of surroundings. Mostly by him, it has to be said. If said surroundings involve things like dirty pans making their final resting place on a plate of congealed fried egg on a manky worktop, it fails the Cup Of Tea Test which I apply to everything. It never lets me down.
Within moments of his return, my probing about what it’s like inside – “Marble or wooden worktops? Big or little fridge? Separate dining room or table in the kitchen? Dusty or pristine knick-knacks? Does it smell of cat? Did you manage to go upstairs for a nose?” – were answered with the one sentence that speaks volumes to me and puts a full stop on any notion of a dinner party at theirs: “You wouldn’t have a cup of tea in there.”
And blimey, was he bang on.
Dirty dishes everywhere, empty takeaway detritus on the floor, manky socks on the back of the settee, a forgotten punnet of mushrooms growing its own punnet of mushrooms next to the telly. And – AND! – just the one, single, naked-as-the-day-is-long, slice of bread sitting on top of the washing machine.
As I said, ych a fi with Brasso’d knobs on.
Then there was the time I went to visit my friend Hiya Love’s folks. His mother was a retired school teacher who used to get her hair blow-dried twice a week and had a penchant for Jaeger jumpers and real pearls. However, she just couldn’t see her slovenliness through her Chanel glasses.
He had warned me about it the first time I went to see her to say hello, as he knows all about the Cup Of Tea Test.
Anyway, on the face of it, it was OK… just a little messy. But who among us hasn’t cleared 16 completed crossword books and years’ worth of wet Western Mails just to sit down? Then…. (ugh) then…. (can’t cope!)… then she got the shortbreads out of a tin marked DOG BISCUITS.
Then… (bear with)… then… (kecking at the memory now)… then she went to her display cabinet to reach for one of her Royal Copenhagen cups only for her to grab it, BLOW ON IT to get rid of the dust, then WIPE IT CLEAN on her “best” gardening trousers. The ones with the dirt AND the dog hair on.
As an aside, Hiya Love also told me the story of the time his folks were burgled. When the police came down the stairs after checking their bedrooms, one turned to his mother and said: “Oh, we’re so sorry. It’s awful up there. Best to leave it a while before looking at what they have done.”
They thought the place had been utterly ransacked… but that was the state they’d left it in that morning, she laughed.
He’s still helpless when he recalls her turning to her bi-weekly cleaning lady and saying: “Nice job today. Not that I ever think of this house as being untidy. I like to think of it as a museum – everything’s on display.”
So, I will compromise on many things – politics, music, literature, people, wallpaper, men. Tea is not one of them.
And let’s be clear about terminology while I’ve got you. It is simply “tea”. Never bubble, herbal, iced, green, or Earl and its smug buttie Grey.
So, in the spirit of public service, here is my ideal cuppa.
I’m at home. Tea tastes better there – safer somehow, like emotional insulation. One Yorkshire Tea teabag because it’s dependable, no‑nonsense, and understands the assignment. I’m going decaf these days, though I remain unconvinced there’s any meaningful difference. The fact that my left eye no longer twitches is beside the point.
The vessel matters more than people think. It’s got to be somewhere between a mug and a cup, or what I like to call “thin china”, made in a material sturdy enough for my hams‑for‑hands. When you find the right one, buy several. This is not the time for restraint.
Five sweeteners. Non‑negotiable. Canderel tablets, not that powdered stuff. If only Hermesetas is available, I pivot to three sugars with quiet martyrdom and mild excitement that I’m going full on.
Boiling water. None of this waiting‑for‑it‑to‑calm‑down lark. There should be a brief, satisfying moment where the bag fizzes like a tiny volcanic event. Then we wait. Properly wait. Waaaaaiiiiiitttttttttt. Timing matters here, do not rush. There is a window for perfection. You learn it. You feel it. You respect it.
Add milk generously. I’m not fussy about type unless I’m in a cafe in Abergavenny, where everything is dairy-adjacent. Milk before or after water is a debate I refuse to entertain. Life’s too short to go full Devon‑versus‑Cornwall over its regional differences à la the jam/cream first conundrum.
The colour should land somewhere around a Tenby tan – present, but not aggressive.
I own a teapot, of course. I’m not a heathen. Loose leaves are lovely but require a level of commitment I simply don’t have. And nothing fragranced should come near a hot drink: no rose, no violet, no festive flavours trying to blur the line between a drink and a dessert.
Posh Paws makes a respectable cuppa, though he cannot commit to my order of five sweeteners.
He watches me make his with quiet horror, muttering “wrong, wrong, wrong” as if witnessing a minor but troubling faux pas.
And look – if you want to microwave your tea if it gets a bit Baltic, that’s your business. I won’t be joining you, largely because of the mysterious ecosystem living on most microwave ceilings, with bits of baked bean threatening to drop at any moment. But this is not a judgment.
Because for all my rules, rituals, and strongly held opinions, I do understand one thing: There is no single correct way to make tea. Only the right way for you.
For all its structure, tea is deeply personal. It reflects how you like to be looked after, and how you look after others. What you consider “right”. What you’re willing to tolerate. And perhaps that’s why it matters so much.
In a world increasingly loud, fast and impersonal, tea remains small, slow and specific – a tiny act of care in a country that still believes in them.
Best put the kettle on while you stew on that.
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