When my neighbour Beryl’s here, we chat about highly personal things over a cuppa because we no longer have our mums to confide in
News that a listening device was allegedly found in a teapot given to British civil servants by Chinese spies had me thinking: what stories could our teapots tell?
Between the dozens I’ve had over the years, they’ve been there at every twist and turn of my life. A giant, steaming pot of loose leaf tea was always plonked in the centre of the table as I laughed for hours with Mum, listened to Dad’s stories, gossiped with friends or cried over a loved one lost.
A day couldn’t start or end without it and the steel tea strainer was rarely dry. Mum always told me off for not leaving tea long enough to brew, even when I left home, married and had kids. “Valerie, you’ve enough water in this to serve all the street,” she’d scold.
Mum always told me to use a Steradent denture tablet to clean brown tea stains from the pot. As time rolled by, teabags nudged loose leaf out of teapots but the pot remained the centre not just of the table but the home. It’s like a beacon that signifies it’s time to stop, sit and chat. It’s the hot, comforting heart of family life.