Where's the teapot?
Insomnia, where is thy stingalingaling? I can't really say I enjoy sleeping as I'm not there to appreciate it. However, getting up to go to the bathroom at 2:15 and finding that my feeble brain thinks that's it for the night has a certain lack of charm, too. So, having set myself a couple of deadlines ("If I'm not asleep by 3 a.m., I'm getting up.") I've been up since 4:05 and what better or more traditional way of celebrating than with a pot of Typhoo. Not a bag dunked in a mug but a proper laid out on a tray (no lace doily) pot of char complete with milk bottle, spoon and ramekin to drop the bags in when the time comes. But somewhere hidden deep in the bowels of our expensive kitchen (thanks, Annie) lurks our big green teapot. I can picture it in every cupboard - up front and centre in the plate cupboard, lurking with the weird half bottles of cooking tequila above the stove, everywhere. But can I find it? Nah. I spread the searc...
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