A Nice Cup Of Tea

I wake up tired, slug-headed and with a sandpaper mouth. I roll over in bed and my stomach is just a split second behind, enough to make me fear the worst but then the nausea passes. I reach out for Sadie but her side of the bed is cold and unslept-in. We must have had another argument somewhere down the line last night, but I can’t remember specifics this early in the day. It wouldn’t be the first time we’d gone our separate ways at the end of a night of beer-induced rowing. It was one reason why we couldn’t ever get married, I told her. Where would we have left to go to when the mutual exasperation gripped us? It was one of the few things we agreed on.

I groan and wretch slightly.

I need a nice cup of tea to start the recovery process. Tea makes everything better. I heave myself up and feel a rush of blood pounding in my skull, just behind the eyes, warning me to proceed with caution. I slide gently out of bed, trying not to move too suddenly, and step gingerly down stairs. Each footfall sends a spasm of pain up to my temples. My older self whispers “nevermore” through the mounting headache.

There’s a post-it on the fridge door in Sadie’s hand that says “Feed me” in angry red marker. I open the door and there’s nothing there except for half an old sausage roll that’s wearing a little coat of blue-grey mould, and my stomach lurches. There’s no damn milk either, and that means a trip to the newsagent’s although I’m in no shape to head out anywhere.
But if I don’t get a cup of tea I can write off the day and then before you know it it’ll be Monday morning and back at work, the weekend gone and five days of slog to look forward to.

So I splash a bit of cold water over my face, spray on a bit of deodorant and head out. The chill November wind smacks me in the eyes and I jerk my head back, feeling a shard of glass rip along my veins as the hangover turns the vice a little tighter. Next time I’m either going to drink less (unlikely) or make sure I’ve got plenty of provisions in (less unlikely, but by no means something to put your money on). I clutch my coat to my neck and head across the commons, a man in dire need of the wherewithal to make himself a nice cup of tea and salvage something from the day.
There’s a Sunday league football game going on in the distance and as I draw nearer I can see the linesman flagging wildly. The game stops in some confusion, players of both teams throwing up their arms, abuse in the air like swirling leaves. Then I notice it’s Charlie and he’s turned his back on the game and is waving his flag to get my attention, unaware of or not caring about the chaos he’s causing behind him. I head over wearily. Charlie is a mate, but I could really do without this today.

“Pint? In about…” he looks at his watch, “5 minutes, when this alleged football match ends?”

What can I say? He looks at me with a stare that’s both needy and challenging and I know that if I turn him down I won’t hear the end of it. I could say that Sadie’s left me and I want to be alone for a while, but he’s heard that too many times to fall for it again. I opt for the line of least resistance.

“Right,” I mumble, “but just a quick…”

“Nice one.” And then he runs off down the touchline.

My stomach churns at the thought of a pint, but a mate’s a mate and I can’t really sit in a pub nursing a cup of tea so let’s just get it over with. I’ll tell him I’ve got to be somewhere later so it doesn’t turn into a session, as it often does with Charlie once we get to setting the world to rights.

We have a drink in the local, the music is too loud and I can barely keep down the ale, the bitter taste of the hops fighting against the waft of frying food drifting in from the kitchen to see which one can make me heave first. It’s lunch time and the barstaff are going backwards and forwards with plates slathered with roast beef and yorkshire pud, but I long to crawl back into bed and get under the covers, away from the smells, muzak and Charlie’s babble. Thankfully he seems to sense I’m not really listening and makes a move himself. I take a long swig of the warm pint as he watches me and my guts clench in rebellion. I feel a hot flush rake my body and I choke back the gag reflex.

I still have to get to the newsagent’s and that’s even further away after the detour to the pub. By the time I get there it’s mid-afternoon and I head straight to the fridge cabinet at the back of the shop, only to find two tubs of marge and empty shelves. My heart sinks as I head to the counter.

“Where’s the milk?” I ask the tattooed woman on the till.

“Gone.” She doesn’t even bother to look up from her copy of OK magazine. Her finger hovers over photos of the rich and famous, fridges no doubt stocked to the brim with fresh, chilled milk. I almost puke in despair. There are tears just waiting to burst forth, I can feel them.

Before I embarrass myself I push through the door and head home. Thick clouds are gathering over the commons. There’s rain in the air and it feels apocalyptic. It must mean the end of the world is near if it’s this hard to get a cup of tea.

I trudge past the now deserted playing fields and back onto the estate, heading home. My mouth is dry and the headache is getting worse. I feel lost, lonely and clueless.

I hope to God that when I get home Sadie’s come back. I hope she picked up some milk. I’ll crawl towards her feet and grovel if I have to. Beg for forgiveness. Make her a nice cup of tea and talk it all over.
I need to sort my life out.