I had a bad cup of tea on a plane yesterday; the same venue offered that abomination against nature known as “creamer” to Lady Devotea as they offered no milk, and later at an airport, an offshoot one of the “worlds best retailers” – Harrods – served us up teapots containing teab*gs.

So, what you would normally be reading is tales of the start of another adventure; my snarky questing for good tea amongst the tea-ignorant barbarians of yet another country that will probably fail to meet my teaxpectations.

More on all that later, but I’m going to take a moment.

The sun is rising over a tropical paradise (that picture on this post is from our room) and we are alive.

As we neared our hotel after a dozen hours travel yesterday, we inched past an accident. A guy had come off of a motorbike, and as we passed by within a metre or so, it became clear to me that he had died as a result.

Someone lost a son; a husband, a partner, a friend, a father. Makes a bad cup or tea or two fade a bit.

After all, I can have a good cup of tea today.

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