The tintinnabulation of teaspoons
in bone china cups evokes the pealing
from church steeples that once called the faithful
to matins. ‘More tea, vicar?’ As she steeps
a pyramid in boiling water, there
is a middle class sitcom playing in
the living room of her mind. Ceramic
mugs from Matalan almost sound the same,
but there is no cosied pot, no leaves to
strain or tell the future, no fancy jug
of gold top, no bowl of sugar to tong.
’One lump or two?’ The ancient rituals
of god and housewives are both in decline.
She drinks something instant and saccharine.
