Wise Teabags

As an aspiring writer, it's no surprise that I enjoy writing. Sometimes I forget, or decide that being lazy beats writing.

So it's always nice when your teabag can remind you to do some writing :)

I think most herbal teas taste like bath soap scraped into a teabag to be honest, but Yogi Tea is something else. Delicious!

There are 60 blends, so you're bound to find one you like. I love many of them. I recommend the 'Licorice', which actually tastes less like licorice, and more like Christmas.

The tea I am drinking now is the 'Women's Energy' variety (yes they all have suitable hippy names). The water turns dark pink after a few minutes of brewing, making it that bit more girly. It has tasty stuff in it including peppermint, hibiscus, ginger, raspberry leaves, black pepper and cardamom.

The fun part is that these hippy teas each have a little piece of wisdom to share with you. Personally, I am a big fan of any advice departed by a teabag. I can't think of a better source of knowledge and insight than a little guru sitting in my bedtime cup of tea.

Each box of tea also has a picture and explanation of a yoga pose if that sort of thing floats your boat (it does mine, I'm an all round hippy it seems).

Most chilled out, insightful tea I know of...hits the spot every time.

P.S. They are not paying me for advertising, I just genuinely love the stuff and recommend it to all.

P.P.S. I am especially enjoying this pre-bed cup of Yogi because I'm in bed, listening to the best Spotify playlist made by the best friend. This particular song is beautiful - thank you Laura.

Tiken Jah Fakoly - Ouvrez Les Frontières

Beer Babies and Fishing Boats

It's incredible. The biggest fish I've ever seen. Bigger than anything that Captain Birdseye has ever caught, and he's a proper fisherman with a uniform. The fish has scales of silver, grey and black in a great patchwork across its belly. Its long, sleek body glistens in the sun and winks at me. The shine rubs away at the tail, where the scales become dusty and clouded, like flakes of limescale.

"That is one big ass fish", Dad breathes over my shoulder.
"It's mine." I don't even want him to look at it.
"Alright son" Dad chuckles, "plenty to go round, look at the size of the bugger!"
I don't want it to go round. Nobody else is going to hold him, or touch him, or eat him. I caught him and I want him all to myself.
"He's my friend and not yours", I whisper, my eyes still pinned on the fish. Dad doesn't say anything.
When I do turn around, he is sitting at the other end of the boat, next to the motor, sipping from a can. Oh no, I think, but then I recognise the cream and red striped pattern and I know it's ok because it's just Ginger beer.

I look back at the fish.
My fish.
The tail is still. Only a moment ago it was thrashing wildly against the bench and flicking up into the air. The eye bulges and the little black dot in the middle seems to be looking right at me. Its mouth opens and closes a few times like a spaghetti hoop, gasping for air. Then everything stops. Even the gills cease their subtle movement and lapse against the fish's cheeks. The fish lies quite still on the wooden bench, it's eye fixed on me. Fat drops of water slip from its scales to the wooden floor of the boat, making dark stains.

The fish is dead.
The eye is still looking, although it is dead, so it can no longer look at anything. But it looks like it's looking.
It dawns on me that the fish is dead because I have killed it. I wander if it has a family? Do they notice it is missing? Will they be putting up 'Missing' posters in the sea below our boat?

I turn away from the fish and take a step towards Dad.
"Dad, you can share it with me if you like?" My voice comes out shaky.
"No, no, all yours, you caught it after all." Dad shakes his head and takes another slurp of Ginger beer.
"I know Dad...but you can have it, actually. I changed my mind. You can have it and do what you like with him. If you want to eat it, that's ok. In fact, I think you should eat it."
Dad cocks his head and frowns.
"It's your first ever catch Henry, I'm proud of you. You should eat it mate, celebrate. Don't worry about me." Dad smiles reassuringly.
"No, no, I don't think...well, I...I think you should eat it Dad. I don't want to, really." I find myself looking down at my blue wellies as I say it.

Dad puts his hands on his hips. He looks over my head at the fish. I'm trying to read his face, and the creases in his forehead mean he is either frowning or confused.
Has the fish moved? Maybe it's jumped back into the sea? I don't want to look incase it hasn't, and the eye is still staring at me, following me around the boat. I stare at Dad's navy wool jumper with a hole in it instead. The hole is right in the middle of his beer belly, probably in the place where his belly button is underneath his t-shirt.

Dad used to drink a lot of beer. His belly is so round that he looks pregnant. You're not meant to drink if you are pregnant, because it might damage the baby. I hope Dad's not pregnant, because the baby would probably be in a very bad shape if he is.

Dad says he has given up beer now anyway.
"Dad, please, have the fish." I am nearly begging now, I can hear it in my voice, it's gone all high-pitched.
"I know what we'll do. We can gut it and cook it, and we'll have a right feast, eating it together!" Dad looks excited.
I chance a look at the fish.
It's still there, still staring.
"I DON'T WANT THE FISH!" I shout it as loud as I can and sit on the floor of the boat and pull my sweatshirt over my head. I don't want the fish to see me. Even if it is dead and can't see.
I want to get off the boat and I never want to see the fish again.

I remember how excited I was about this fishing trip with Dad this morning. I woke up early and ended up having to wait for Dad and eat three bowls of coco pops because I was up early, and he was late. Dad wouldn't leave until he had checked the weather forecast on the BBC. I wish there had been a storm and we had stayed in.