Don’t mean to harp on about this
It's really starting to wear me down.
I have to take a jar of the freshly brewed shit to work. Carrying around dung-coloured liquid in a jar on the train is one thing, (especially in a country where everyone eyes your jar like it's a potential terrorist tool), but I made the mistake of opening it up in a meeting yesterday.
'I think we should embargo the release until we know exac....'ang on...what's that smell?’
Oh sorry, it’s just this tea I’m drinking.
Rolling of eyes. What’s the weird South African up to now?
‘That could peel paint off a driveway, what are you doing?’
‘It’s my new...schtick.’
I then spent the rest of the meeting talking to people with a facial expression exemplary of someone who’d just sucked on a lemon. Eyes closed, face in pained expression, nose scrunched, lips pursed.
I persist with boardroom meeting-speak, 'In lieu of this discussion, pan-consolidation of events spreadsheets sounds like a strong action item,’ where the face doesn’t match the words coming from my scrunched up mouth.
I made my flatmate – he that I don’t understand – taste some.
'S'focken brutal lass.’
He went outside, thereafter, I believe, to throw a cat/take a little yack in our tomatoes.
Which is, evidently, where I place the gigantic, stinking teabag, after stewing it on the hob each night.
1) Either we’ll grow amazing Jack & The Beanstalk-type tom’s
2) Or; we’ll grow some very anti-indigenous alien Chinese plants
I made the Ozzie smell it.
‘It smells alroight.’
‘Taste it. Taste it now.’
‘...[pause]...[brevity crumbles]...Mate, that was deegusteeng. I smashed eet and eet was foul.'
Yeah, and I have to drink this for three months. Twice a fucking day, infidels.
Wait till the Brit gets back. He’s not going to like this.
It’s honestly the most appalling thing I’ve ever had to consume.
And I need to the world to know it.