Where's your tea?

When studying homeopathy a lecturer said to me, "If you can find out about their tea, you have the case cracked."

I used to love tea as a child.  It was the first thing I learnt to do in the kitchen.  At 3 years old I would pull up a chair put the kettle on, warm the pot, put the tea leaves in and make my Dad a cup of tea (health and safety people would be having palpitations at the thought).  The children's book, The Dribblesome Teapot by Norman Hunter was one of my all time favourites. My next door neighbour was a tea-obsessive.  He had a green painted chest in his kitchen with jars of every variety of tea known to man and sometimes we were invited in to try different teas.  Sunday tea was my favourite, with cake and crumpet and a warm pot of tea.  It was all very exciting and sometimes I wonder why I only drink hot water now.

We are having Hairy Dieters Burgers for our tea tonight but that isn't what my lecturer meant at all.  Tea, for her stood for Time Energy and Attention and while I am looking forward to my burgers all I am thinking about is my throat and the sounds that may or may not come out of it.  I have tried to blog about other things.  I have tried to be interested in the world and everything else but I find my mind wandering and there it is, settled right in the pit of my throat.

After 8 weeks of waking up and hoping that I would be speaking normally, this morning I stupidly felt scared that I would be symptom free.  You see, tomorrow is my long awaited appointment with the consultant.  Tomorrow, someone might be able to say if there is anything wrong and tell me what can be done to fix it and as I write that I'm thinking that I don't want anything to be wrong - still.  I am the ultimate scaredy cat but I am also aware just how stupid I would look if tomorrow morning I felt absolutely fine, with not one single symptom.  It would feel like such a waste of everyone's time.

I would like to tell you about my brilliant Christmas present, or some homemade biscuits, or the memory quilt I made for my daughter, or the weeds on my allotment, or the lengths I swam, or the baby cardigan I'm going to knit, or the songs I want to sing but because I can't sing any songs, that is all I can think about.  Even the fact that I'm now going to grate a courgette (don't tell my son) to put into the burger isn't inspiring me to make some notes for my forthcoming book, "1001 Things to do with a Courgette!"