Showing posts with label English breakfast tea. Show all posts
Showing posts with label English breakfast tea. Show all posts

Sunday, 7 December 2025

Hey Dad by Leonie Jarrett, a cup of strong English breakfast tea

Hey Dad, I remember my first Christmas. Well, I don’t actually. The first Christmas that I remember, I don’t remember exactly how old I was. I think my childhood Christmas memories have jumbled together...I remember Mum always putting out a carrot and a cookie and a beer for Father Christmas before I went to bed. Is leaving out a beer an odd Australian thing Dad? A nod to the fact that Christmas in Australia is summer? Did you do it growing up in Ireland? I never asked you that.

 

I remember wanting to hurry to bed and hurry to sleep because Mum told us that Father Christmas would not stop at our house if we saw him. Nice one, Mum. Well played! I would be too scared to look at the sky just in case I caught a glimpse of Father Christmas, the sleigh or the reindeer. He wasn’t Santa when I was a child; always Father Christmas.

 

I remember big gatherings with my aunties, uncles and cousins on Mum’s side. Your side were all in England and Ireland. Did you miss Christmas with your family Dad? I never asked you that either.

 

I remember Christmas 1975. We spent it in Southport, England with your family. I was seven years old and I wanted to see snow. But no snow came. There was you, Mum, Lou and me. Paul wasn’t born until the next year. You had three sisters all living in Southport and all with children. Your brother, his wife and children (they had five of them) came over from Ireland with your Dad. Your Mum had died suddenly the year before. I think that was the idea of the trip – have your Dad and the family meet all of us including Mum. Overseas travel wasn’t “the norm” then. Not like now. It must have been a big deal for the four of us to go overseas.

 

I remember that, after Christmas that year, we went to Ireland and I went with you to lots of people’s houses to visit. They would play cards and drink and smoke. You never drank nor smoked but you loved playing cards. Ironically, cards - Bridge - kept you going in retirement. Gave you a purpose and a routine. Anyway, I am skipping ahead.

 

I remember certain, special Christmas presents...my first bike. The only bike I ever had actually. It was metallic dark blue – I guess you put it together; not the Elves! And the trampoline, still in the box unassembled and to be shared with Lou and Paul. In those days, trampolines were just rectangular things with no padding over the nasty springs. No one ever got hurt on our trampoline which was a miracle really.

 

I remember my first Christmas as a wife in 1992 (it meant I had a lot more to think about and more presents to buy) and my first Christmas as a mother in 1996 (Mark was born in early January so I had to wait almost a year for that occasion). I also remember every first Christmas with each of my four children. You were always there – part of every Christmas.

 

I remember for many years after you and Mum divorced that you wanted to spend Christmas Day with your new partner and her friends. You also wanted to see your grandchildren so you always wanted to come by for breakfast. It meant we had a rushed Christmas morning every year then lunch with my in-laws and dinner with Mum or the other way around (we alternated each year). Christmas became a test of endurance for me. I resented you for the rush and tried to tell you so many times but you were stubborn about it. I never could change your mind about anything Dad. You were black and white. No grey. Decision made, decision done. I’m not like that.

 

Why all these memories? All this reminiscing? It’s because of the last few months with you Dad. When you were sick and then we realised you were dying. The long days in the hospital keeping you company as the cancer ate away at you and you shrivelled in front of me.

 

This year is my first Christmas without you Dad. I knew it was coming. Knew it a year ago when you were diagnosed. Just didn’t know when exactly.

 

Parents should die before their children. That’s the right order. And you were 83. Not young. But the finality has rocked me. More than it did when my father-in-law died and that’s not because I didn’t love him. I did. He was a beautiful man and I miss him to this day, thirteen years on.

 

I think you going Dad has rocked me because you were always there. From the beginning. So many childhood and adult memories are weaved with memories of you and now you’re gone. And if I have a memory which leads to a question, I can’t ask you any more. All I can do is have these conversations with you in my head.

 

Anyway, I remember Dad. All those Christmases. Lots of things actually. Over my whole life.

 

Hey Dad, I miss you.

About the author 

 Leonie Jarrett lives in Melbourne, Australia with her Husband of more than three decades, two of her four adult children and her two Golden Retrievers. Leonie is a lawyer and has owned several businesses. Now that she is semi-retired, Leonie is loving writing rivers of words. 
 
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Thursday, 8 June 2023

Memory Lane by Leonie Jarrett, a cup of English breakfast tea

Annie was sitting quietly in her nightie in her favourite, green velvet recliner when her husband, Bill, walked in.

 

“Annie my girl. It’s boiling today. Hot as a fried egg sizzling on the pan. What do you feel like doing?”

 

Annie stared out the window and didn’t answer.

 

“Well, you’re not very talkative today gorgie girl. I think we’ll go for a walk by the lake. We’ll find a shady spot.

 

"How about you wear that pink sundress with the flowers on it? You look as pretty as a peony in that dress. Pretty as a whole bunch of peonies in fact! They’re in season now. I’ll buy a bunch for you tomorrow.

 

"I’ll get that dress out for you. And I’ll pack a cool drink and something to eat and a sun hat. Do you want anything else?”

 

Annie smiled gently.

 

“Come on. Let’s go,” chirped Bill.

 

Later, sitting on a bench beside the lake, Bill’s eyes were dewy as he looked at Annie.

 

“You know our wedding anniversary is coming up Annie. 50 years. Bet you’re glad I chased you all those years ago, hey?” Bill winked at Annie.

 

“Goodness, I chased you for years. Right from when we were in primary school together and you wore your hair with a fringe and pig tails. Who knew then that we’d still be together all these years later? And so happy too.”

 

Annie silently smiled at Bill.

 

“You remember don’t you honey? When we were at high school, I used to jump in front of you at the train station. I’d tell you a joke and try and impress you in front of your friends. Not sure that was my smartest move. Those girls didn’t like me much.” Bill laughed at the memory.

 

Annie smiled again.

 

"That was a long time ago wasn’t it Princess? Almost seems another life ago…Well, I guess it was really. Before we were married…before the kids. Still love you gorgeous. You’re still as beautiful, sweet and pure as the kisses of our grandbabies.”

 

Bill and Annie sat in silence for a while longer.

 

“Well Annie my girl. I guess we best be getting back. Don’t want the sun to spoil your peaches and cream face! You always tell me that you need to be careful of your face; that you’re getting too many freckles. Never understood that. I’ve always loved your freckles. They’re like sprinkled stardust. Magical fairy dust.”

 

Home again, Annie was again sitting quietly in her favourite, green velvet recliner and Bill was reading the newspaper.

 

A lady walked in. “Hello Annie. Hello Bill. Did you have a nice outing? How was she today Bill?”

 

“Same as always Nurse. Didn’t say too much but happy.”

 

“Good. Time to go home Bill. It’s the residents’ dinner time.”

 

“OK. Night night sweetheart,” said Bill to Annie, gently kissing her on the forehead. “I’ll be back tomorrow. And I’ll bring you those peonies. Sleep tight lovely.”

 

About the author 

Leonie Jarrett lives in Melbourne, Australia with her Husband of 3 decades, her 4 adult children and her two  Golden Retrievers. Leonie has variously been a lawyer and a business owner. Now that she is semi-retired, Leonie is loving writing some fiction and non-fiction. 

 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Friday, 11 June 2021

A Penchant for Tulips

 

by Caroline Geary

Twinings English Breakfast 

 

Mark awoke to the sound of his cat heaving.  An unearthly gurgle that had him springing from his bed, ready to sling Hugo, his beloved ginger Tom, out the back door. He did not want his floor decorated with feline vomit. He couldn’t face cleaning up cat sick at the best of times, but especially not before he’d had his coffee. After fumbling with the lock of the back door, the still retching Hugo under one arm, he managed to swing it open just in time to deposit Hugo onto the back doorstep, where said cat promptly vomited. 

Ten minutes later Mark sat with Hugo purring away on his lap. He sipped his coffee, his brow furrowed. This being sick had started a few weeks ago. Mark had taken Hugo to the vet twice now, and even though he had spent the best part of a couple of hundred pounds, neither the vet nor Mark was any the wiser as to what was wrong. Mark tried to think of anything he’d done differently in the last few weeks, but only one thing stood out. The arguments with his elderly neighbour Edith. They had never got on. Since he had moved in a year ago she had been a miserable old windbag. She had moaned that his car obscured her drive (it didn’t, and she didn’t drive anyway) She complained his music was too loud (even when it was Crowded House at a very modest volume). She also moaned that the cat did his business in her garden (he didn’t, he did it in the other neighbour’s garden, Mark had seen him) and she moaned when he fed the birds as she claimed the birdseed attracted rats. (she might have a point with that one) 

So could it be. thought Mark, that she might have something to do with this? Could she be poisoning Hugo? He often went missing for hours at a time and could easily be lured into next doors with a saucer of milk or a sniff of tuna. She could put poison out in the garden too he thought. Weren’t slug pellets poisonous to cats?

 

He looked out into the garden. Edith, he noticed, was weeding the flower beds. He eyed her suspiciously; she must have sensed him looking as she lifted her head and glared back. Hugo was nowhere to be seen. As Mark made himself a second cup of coffee a plan began to form. 

The next morning his delivery arrived early. Good old Amazon he thought as he opened the package labelled Paw Tracker 100. He grinned at his genius.

'Hugo! come here boy,' he called, and Hugo arrived obediently as his feet. Removing Hugo’s old collar and replacing it with the Paw tracker, Mark positioned the camera at the front of the collar and  held the button down until the blue light flashed. He was pleased to see the camera had some charge. 

'Off you go boy,' said Mark encouragingly. 'Let’s see just what you get up to these days and just what, or whom, is making you poorly.’

Hugo’s huge amber eyes looked questioningly at Mark before he turned, jumped up on a stool, curled up and went to sleep. Mark sighed. This was not going to be as interesting as he had hoped. He set off to work, noticing Edith’s curtain twitch slightly as he pulled away in his old Golf.

            When Mark arrived home that evening, he scratched Hugo behind the ears.

 'You been there all-day mate?' he asked as the ginger tom was still seated in the same place Mark had left him that morning. Hugo yawned, exposing his little pointy teeth. Mark removed the collar and put the camera on charge cracking open a beer.  Soon after, he was slumped on the sofa in his favourite position, feet up on the footstool and Hugo purring happily on his lap. He swigged some beer and popped the USB stick into his laptop. 'Let’s see where you’ve been today mate,' said Mark stroking Hugo's left ear making it twitch in irritation. 

 

Mark was impressed by the quality of the footage, although black and white it was really easy to make out what was going on, even if it was somewhat disorientating seeing the world from Hugo’s perspective. 

Firstly, the footage showed Hugo jumping from the stool, finishing the food in his bowl, and slipping through the cat flap. Next the footage went very, very still. The  image on the screen showed the back lawn and the footage was moving very, very slowly. Mark had to lean forward and strain his eyes to see what was in the shot. He didn’t see it at first, but then he could identify a small sparrow, hopping around on the lawn. The footage then leapt forward as Hugo pounced towards the bird. And missed.

'Ha old boy! Better, luck next time,’ laughed Mark.

Next Mark could tell Hugo lay in a patch of sun, the image so bright nothing could be made out on the screen, he then washed his paws and tried and failed to catch another bird. Mark was just about to give up on seeing anything of interest when the wall separating his and Edith’s gardens loomed into view. Hugo leapt over the fence the view on screen lurching violently, and up to Edith’s back door. Mark leant forward, interest piqued. 

He’s waiting at the door thought Mark. This clearly meant Hugo had been in Edith’s house before. Mark was about to take a swig of beer as Edith's lower legs appeared behind the frosted glass and the door swung open giving Mark his first-ever glimpse of the hallway. It was as he imagined. Old fashioned but classy. The parquet flooring polished mirror smooth, a patterned rug covering much of the hallway. Mark watched through Hugo’s eyes as the cat padded through to the kitchen 

Mark was suddenly treated to a cat’s eye view of Edith’s sagging tights. 

 The camera had no sound, but he was shocked when he saw Edith’s face loom into view. Her expression was warm and smiling. He realised he had ever seen her smile before. Not once and he certainly hadn’t expected Hugo to be the cause of such genuine delight. After a few blurry movements, the next thing Mark saw was Hugo’s favourite dry biscuits being poured into a bowl and then the biscuits looming into view as the whole screen became a blur. It was clear he was watching Hugo wolf the food down. Mark was puzzled. As far as he could see Edith hadn’t added anything to the cat biscuits, He hadn’t seen anything that might resemble a poison. Weird. It was as though Edith was luring Hugo in as she liked him, and not out of spite at all. 

Next it seemed that Edith was retiring to her front room. Mark watched her slippered feet shuffle along the parquet and it was clear that Hugo was upon her lap as soon as she sat down. He could tell by the head movements that Hugo gave that she was rubbing him behind the ears. If there had have been audio on the recording Mark was certain Hugo would be purring like a pick-up. On the screen Hugo turned himself round and Mark was surprised to see that although Edith was smiling whilst talking to Hugo, a solitary tear had run down her cheek. He was shocked at his response; he felt a pang of remorse at his bad feelings towards her.  There was something desperately painful in seeing an older person cry. Mark drained his beer and continued to watch. On the recording Hugo had seen a bird in the garden thorough Edith’s window and had jumped up onto window sill. As Hugo paraded up and down Mark couldn’t help noticing the framed photos. One was a wedding picture, clearly of Edith in her younger days, her hair rolled up in elegant curls and her husband's arms around her waist. He wondered when she had lost him. Was it recently? he wondered. There was another photo of the husband in a soldier’s uniform. Mark wondered if this dapper looking husband of Edith’s had been killed in the war. He felt a creeping sense of shame as he realised, he never asked her anything about herself. The third and final photo on the windowsill was one of Edith and husband holding a baby. Mark frowned; he didn’t remember Edith ever mentioning a child and he had never seen her have any visitors. He scratched the back of his neck and fidgeted in his seat. He felt decidedly uncomfortable. Wasn’t it common courtesy, your civil duty even, to check in on your neighbours? Especially elderly ones that lived alone?

Back to the screen and Hugo was back in the hallway. He paused next to a vase of tulips. Oh god please don’t knock that over thought Mark, his lips pulled into a grimace as he watched Hugo sniffing the flowers. The folds and curves of the petals were all Mark could see. He found himself looking at a tulip, which soon became a tulip with half a petal, which soon became a tulip with a quarter of a petal. And then realisation hit him. Hugo was eating tulips. Cat’s cannot eat flowers. And definitely not tulips. He didn’t know how he knew it, but he had heard it somewhere and knew that they were poisonous. He wasn’t sure they were deadly, but it was enough to make a cat sick. The penny dropped and he realised Edith hadn’t been poisoning Hugo, she had simply been lonely and Hugo had been some comfort to her in her time of need. 

He shut the laptop lid firmly and sat back in his chair. He sat there for quite some time. Just thinking. 

The next day he was up early, he hit the supermarket and filled his basket with English breakfast tea, a novelty tea towel featuring a print of cats carrying out various cooking activities and some ginger biscuits. When he arrived home he went straight to Edith’s front door and rang the bell, noticing that his mouth felt dry and his hands clammy.

She answered quickly. She scowled at him and just said

'Yes?'

‘Edith,’ he said, holding out a hand. ‘We haven’t been formally introduced or got off to the best start.' He shifted from one foot to the other ‘And I’d like to apologise. Do you mind if I come in?’ Edith eyed him suspiciously, peering over the rim of her glasses. Mark raised the biscuits ‘Peace offering?’ he said.

Soon he was sitting in Edith’s front room waiting for her to bring in the tea.

Edith arrived then, a little hunched over, but steady on her feet. There were two biscuits on the plate, a teapot complete with a knitted tea cosy. a small sugar bowl and a jug of milk. Mark added two cubes to his tea with a splash then merrily dunked his biscuit. Edith's eyes twinkled in amusement. 

‘Like I say,’ Mark began, ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been very neighbourly. I promise to do better.’

‘Apology accepted’ said Edith. They were silent for a while then Edith said. ‘It's nice to have company.’

Mark smiled.

'It is. Do you not get many visitors?'

Edith shook her head, 

'No family?' Asked Mark, giving a cursory glance to the photo frames on the window sill. 

'No,' said Edith. her eyes had followed Mark’s to the pictures. She shook her head ' I lost Charlie before his first birthday. Pneumonia.'

'I’m so sorry,'' said Mark. 'What about your husband?'

'Ernest?' asked Edith,

'Did he die in the war?'' asked Mark.

'Oh he’s not dead,' said Edith.  'He’s in Oak Lodge.'

It took Mark a second to digest what that was.

'The nursing home?' he asked, finishing his biscuit, 'Do you see him often?'

 'I can’t get there,' she said. 'I’d love to but there's no one to take me.'

‘Well I can take you,' said Mark 'It’s no problem, would you like that?'

 Edith's eyes sparkled  'Yes, yes, please, I would like that so much!'

‘We’ll go tomorrow,’ said Mark. ‘We could take him some biscuits.' 

So it was arranged. Mark would pick Edith up at 10 o’ clock the following morning. 

Mark felt much lighter as he walked to the front door.

‘See you tomorrow,' he said. 

‘At 10 o'clock,’ said Edith with a smile.

Mark turned around as he left and with the warmest tone he had, he said.

‘Oh and I think my cat Hugo would like you.  He gets lonely when I'm at work. He's no bother, his name is Hugo if you call him he’ll come in and keep you company.’

‘Oh how lovely, thank you’ said Edith. 

 He smiled as he noticed her cheeks colour a bit. He turned to go, then turned back once more and added.

‘Oh but just make sure he doesn’t nibble any house plants if you have them. He has a penchant for tulips.’

About the author

Caroline is a Creative Writing student who writes quirky fiction and short stories with a twist.

 

 

Monday, 10 May 2021

Silicon

 

by Jim Bates

English Breakfast Tea

Kay’s phone rang. She checked the screen and smiled. Mandy, her only daughter, lived in Seattle with her husband and two children. She managed a popular coffee shop and was ‘busy, busy, busy, all the time,’ as she laughingly told her mom whenever they talked. Kay appreciated her taking the time to call.

“Hi Mandy. How are you doing?”

            “Hi Mom, all is well. I’ve got a couple of minutes waiting for Jessica’s soccer practice to end, so I thought I’d call and see how things are going with you.”

            “I’m glad you did, sweetheart.”

            “I’m actually wondering about Dad. How’s he doing?”
            “Oh, he’s fine.” Kay appreciated her daughter’s concern. She and Mandy shared a close relationship, and it was nice to chat frankly about her husband Don. “I told you before that he’s kind of been at loose ends since the pandemic.”

            “Yeah, I hear you,” Mandy commiserated. “Who would have thought something like this would ever happen? It’s been a real challenge for us out here. We’ve finally been able to open up at fifty percent capacity, so we’re starting to get some money coming in. The kids can go back to playing soccer but have to wear their masks.” She paused. “We’re getting by. So, what about Dad?”

            “Well, remember he took early retirement from the police force? That was six months ago, just before Covid hit. He did some projects around the house. Dug up a new bed in the garden. He started to read all those classic books he always said he wanted to like Moby Dick, which he barely got through.” Kay chuckled, “To be honest, between retirement and Covid, he’s had a lot of free time.”

            “Get in your way, a little bit?” Mandy laughed. It was their euphemism for her father getting on her mother’s nerves.

            “No. Not, too much.” Mandy heard her mom sigh and smiled, thinking, Right, Mom, but didn’t say anything. Kay continued, “But, he has a new hobby now.”
            That got Mandy’s attention, “Really. What?”
            “Well he was reading some science magazine and it said that silicon was used in making glass. You know your fathers always had a soft spot when it came to science.” Mandy furrowed her brow; she’d had no idea. Her Mom continued, “The article showed some photos of Chihuly glass, you know that fancy glassblower?”

“I know Chihuly really well, Mom. He’s got a showcase display here in Seattle. He calls it a garden. It’s a garden made of glass, and it’s stunning.”

“I saw the pictures. His work is amazing. Well, one thing led to another and to make a long story short, you father started taking classes on glass blowing. Fourteen lessons so far. He’s kind of obsessed.”

            “Dad? Making glass?” Mandy chuckled, “He’s not the most creative guy.”

            “No kidding. I remember when you were young, he was stumped by playdough. Couldn’t make a thing.

            “I remember. Drawing for him was arduous.”

            “Right, he had a tough time making stick figures.”

            Mandy laughed, “Absolutely. They were pretty bad. So, where’s he taking classes?”

            “At the Artist’s Coop in northeast Minneapolis. It’s just him and the instructor and their masks. He’s over there now.”
            “Has he made anything?”
            “Not yet. But I guess today’s the big day It’s going to be his first project.”
            “Let me know how it goes, okay?”

“I will, honey.”

“Look, I’ve got to go. The soccer practice is over.”

            “See you sweetheart.”

            “Bye, Mom.”

A few days later Mandy called. “Hey, Mom. I wanted to know about Dad’s glass blowing project. He sent me a photo. I told him I thought it was nice, but honestly, I have no idea what it is. The deep red was kind of pretty, but the shape was awful. It looked like a bloody heart; you know, like something you’d get at a butcher’s shop.”

            Kay laughed. “You’re being too kind. I think it looks like a cross between road kill and something the cat upchucked.”
            “Ewww. Mom!”

            “You disagree?”

            “Not really. I’m going to tell you one thing, though, I’m not going to show the kids. They’d have nightmares for the rest of their lives.”

            “I hear you. I think your father got the message. He told me his instructor’s been called away on a family emergency and doesn’t know how long he’ll be gone.”

            “Probably for the best.”

“I agree.”
            “So, now what’s up?”

“Well, you know your father, he likes to stay busy.”

“Got another project planned?”

“Yep. He wants to learn how to bake.”

            “Bake?” Mandy laughed. “The man who couldn’t boil water?”

            Kay grinned, “The one and only. I tried to talk him out of it, but he’s determined. He pictures himself as Chef Don.”

Mandy laughed. “Chef Don. I like that. You could get him a monogramed apron.”

Kay chuckled, “Not a bad idea.”

“Well, at least baking is harmless enough, sort of a no brainer.”

            “I agree. I’ve got him started on cholate chip cookies.”

            “Good choice.”

             “Thanks. It should…” She was going to say, “It should be pretty easy,” but, instead, said, “Opps. Gotta’ go.”
            “Why? What’s up?”

            “I smell something burning.”

            Good old Dad, Mandy thought, and said, “Better hurry, Talk to you later, Mom.”

            “For sure. Bye for now, sweetheart.”

            “Bye.”

            Mandy hung up and sat for a minute looking at the photo of her father’s bleeding-heart glass project. The more she studied the odd shaped piece, the better she liked it. It was different. She liked the deep red color. He’d never be Chihuly but you had to start somewhere. Maybe there was some talent there after all. There was only one way to find out and was for him to keep taking lessons.

She about ready to call her mother, but then hesitated. Better wait a few minutes, she thought to herself. There was that issue with the burning cookies to deal. Best to wait until the smoke’s had time to clear.

Maybe until tomorrow.

About the author 

Jim lives in a small town twenty miles west of Minneapolis, Minnesota. His stories and poems have appeared in over two-hundred online and print publications. All of his stories can be found on his blog: www.theviewfromlonglake.wordpress.com.