Tea Lovers Be Warned!

I felt so loved – better, understood – when Beloved gave me the ultimate tea-lover’s gift: a fancy glass teapot (you know, with the thingy in the middle for the tea leaves so you’ll never have to catch them between your teeth again) and a selection of very cool, very expensive teas to sample. Perfect! Now I could upgrade to gourmet tea guzzler while I slaved over my hot keyboard.

I quickly learned my caffeine lesson when I tried Vanilla Black Tea. I whipped up a pot, slurped down a first cup, loved it, and went back for seconds. Then thirds. (Well, it was delicious.) Imagine my consternation when, come midnight, I was more awake than I’d felt in weeks. 1 am and I was rearing to do an all-nighter. That’s when I knew Vanilla Black was not a good option after dark. Not unless I wanted to be very energetic – and before you start sniggering, folks, let me tell you those days are few and far between now there’s Master Seven and The Destroyer to contend with.

Romantic Rose Tea was delicious - though I did begin to worry about my sanity when I caught myself eating it straight from the packet.

But the tea that most upset my equilibrium was Coffee-Flavoured Tea. I love tea and I love coffee, so coffee-flavoured tea sounded like the best of both worlds. I brewed it with love, hovered over the teapot to savour the aroma, and poured my first cup with anticipation. It all went downhill from there. Until that moment I hadn’t realised that part of the coffee experience is texture. Coffee – even black coffee – has a more oily consistency than tea. As in, coffee’s not quite as - well, watery.

I know, I know, sounds nuts, right? But I was drinking something that tasted, to all intents and purposes, just like coffee – but in my mouth it felt all wrong.

Needless to say, the Coffee-Flavoured Tea isn’t in very high demand at our place. Any takers? Ooh! Let’s do a poll! E-mail me (visit my website) and I’ll post out samples.

How about you? Have you ever tried a specialty tea that left you begging for more – or wishing you’d brewed your old socks instead?

Self-Cleaning Hair, Anyone?

I once heard that if you don't wash your hair it becomes self-cleaning in about four-to-six weeks. It sounded pretty good to me. Maybe I should try it some time.

The perfect opportunity arose when my partner and I embarked on a year's travel. Nobody would know me while my hair was at the manky stage. Perfect! We flew in to Malaysia and the experiment began. No more shampoo. Water only.

It wasn't easy. Hell, no. I'm a daily hair-washer. I went through Itchy-Scalp Syndrome and Lank-Hair Syndrome. Four weeks passed. We crossed the border into Thailand and my hair was in such a state it's a miracle they let me in. Clearly my hair was going to take six weeks. I braced myself for Heinous Fly-Trap Syndrome and What's-That-Smell Syndrome. Think of the end goal, I told myself, think of the end goal.

Then we met Jo, an Aussie hairdresser who thought it took a bit longer. A couple of months, maybe. Oh God. Two months? I hoped she was wrong. But after seven weeks I knew she was right, dammit. We parted ways, and I wondered if my hair had something to do with it. I mean, Jo's a professional. I bet she wanted to hold me down and wash my hair by force.

Eight weeks, and we crossed into Vietnam. Thank God nobody knew me. And was it just me or was my partner more distant with me these days? We met up with Aussie Jo again and she couldn't believe it - a) that my hair still wasn't self-cleaning, and b) that I still hadn't washed it. It'll work soon, she assured me. Maybe it's, like, three months instead of two?

I didn't want to give up. Not when I was so close. So I tried to hide my hideous mop beneath my cap and re-set my goalposts to twelve weeks.

At the twelve-week mark we flew to Scotland. That's when Scared-To-Be-Seen-In-Public Syndrome hit. We were staying with family, visiting friends. These people knew me and loved me and couldn't hide their distaste. I felt like a freak.

At thirteen weeks I gave up. I washed my hair. It took three washes before my hair even felt like hair. It took a week before I felt normal. My experiment failed.

But what if it would've only taken another few days, another week? I came so very, very close. And I'll never know because I gave up. I still can't believe I put up with smelly, ugly, disgusting hair for thirteen weeks. Would you?

Non-writers must struggle to comprehend why writers keep trying for that pot of publication gold. It's crazy, but it's a bit like my hair experiment. I know the sensible thing would be to give up - but what if I'm really really close and I just don't know it? What if I only have to get through one more week of manky hair? What if?