The time is 4:00, and the nanny is watching my daughter until 5:30.
There is no way I’ll be able to do anything without her attached to me as soon as I walk through the door, so I’ve opted to spend the rest of my time in a local cafe – a drop of the illusive, oft promoted, often over-rated “me time”.

You know what I’m itching for right now? A cup of Pi Lo Chun. Something green, light and soothing. A gentle mouth-feel that rolls onto your tongue like a warm, lightweight blob of spring-inspired goodness.

Something that I would never in a million years dream of ordering in a place like this.

How would this be solved?

1. Show me that the tea in those tired aluminum tins behind the counter was sourced within the past month.
2. Fill my cup about 1/4 of the way with cold, cold water
3. Add the rest of the water from that horrible tap attached to your coffee maker, but no need to fill it to the top. You’ll need the space for the teabag you’ll be adding…
4. The teabag will be filled with at least a tablespoon of tea (since Pi Lo Chun is voluminous), and will be pushed into the water almost completely with the swizzle stick you’ve already used to stir the water in the cup, cooling down the coffee maker water that would otherwise destroy those precious leaves.
5. Most of the bag will be submerged, so the leaves have room to expand.
6. Finally, please let me know when you put the bag in the water! I don’t want to play the “how long has that bag been in there” guessing game.

So yeah, you think I’m going to make these kind of requests?
Especially when the guy behind the counter has already been asked to give this level of concentration to the beans he’s brewing for everyone else.
Oh hell’s no. Not if I don’t want spit in my drink.

So it’s another cafe au lait for me. Bah.