The Vryheid Tea Party

THERE are two sorts of people: One, those who will willingly put on the kettle and make you a cup of tea, no mess no fuss, and Two, those who would rather have all their teeth pulled out by a drunk diesel mechanic, using a red hot shifting spanner, and without the benefits of anaesthetic. There are some people who if you say to them, “Ag, please make me a cup of tea”, you would imagine from their reaction that you’d asked them to run naked down the middle of Church Street, on a Saturday morning, yelling, “Catch me and you can have me!”, and yes, the mind (among other things) boggles.

This is the situation at the office here in Mark Street. I suppose I drink more tea than anyone else in the office, but to get anyone to make me tea is like asking one staff member to cuss like a sailor, another to give up dop, a couple to go on diet, some to run over and crush their Blackberries (whatever they are, those cellphone things, you know) and all of them to run the Comrades. I really believe that they all avoid making tea even for themselves for fear that I’ll happen to walk through the kitchen and say, “Oh, are you making tea? Please make me some”. They would rather eat dirt.

All of them?

Actually, I exaggerate. One staff member here, who only fairly recently joined the Herald, falls into the other category. To her, tea making is absolutely no trial at all. She makes tea (or coffee) every morning and doesn’t do it as a penance, or to earn favours (in this office? you’d be lucky) or because she expects the gesture to be reciprocated later. She does it ‘cos she knows some people want tea, she’s making for herself, and to her it really isn’t a major headache to make three or four more cups. It’s just not something to get excited about.

You get people like that, and in extreme cases you’ll come across someone who seems to look for excuses to put the kettle on.

“Stone me, the banks were a nightmare today!” “Never mind, let me put the kettle on.”

“Goodness me, there are some real plonkers on the roads!” “Never mind, let me put the kettle on.”

“Great Scott! Have you seen the price of groceries?” “Never mind, let me put the kettle on.”

“The damned insurance company say they won’t pay, the tight-fisted morons!” “Never mind, let me put the kettle on.”

“You’ll never guess – the doc gave me an enema today!” “Never mind, let me put the kettle on.”

“Bloody hell, the kettle’s broken!” “Never mind, I’ll put a pot of water on the stove.”

No mess. no fuss.

That’s been the situation for just over a year now; I sit down at my desk in the morning and hey presto, a large mug of Glen’s finest appears, and judging from the absence of heavy breathing and beads of sweat on her brow, it has been made almost effortlessly. And I am very grateful. Thank you, Doris.

However, we have a crisis – Doris is leaving us. So at the last staff meeting here, broadly speaking under “Matters Arising”, I said, “Listen, everybody, there’s something I think we really ought to discuss. There’s still a bit of time, but I think the sooner the matter’s settled the better, to ensure that there’s no unhappiness and that there is a smooth transition.”

I had their attention.

“The way I see it,” I continued, “is that someone could volunteer, or you could draw a name from a hat, or we could call for applicants, even perhaps have a judging panel, or, of course, I could simply delegate someone using my editorial discretion and powers of delegation.”

Now they were listening! What was the Editor, nogal, talking about?

“What do you all think?” I asked, and before they could ask what I was talking about I continued, “My personal feeling is that someone volunteering or me delegating someone could lead to unhappiness, possibly even talk of favouritism. I therefore propose that we put all your names in a hat, and draw the lucky winner. I cannot be fairer than that.”

They stared at me quizzically until one of them, I forget who, said, “What are you talking about, you old fart?” Respect and understanding was in the air.

“Well,” I said, “Doris is leaving, and we have to decide who’s going to make me my morning cup of tea each day, you know, so there’s a smooth transition from the old order to the new, and no bitchiness or hard feelings.”

Well I tell you, the Boston Tea Party in 1773, that kick-started the American Revolution, had nothing to compare with the emotions displayed at that staff meeting.

I expected any minute to be hustled out the office and for the door to be barricaded with office furniture, behind which furious women would be demanding chocolate cake and quiche as peace tokens. Instead, simultaneously, they all burst out laughing, seven women laughed so hard that one fell to the floor and two ran for the loo yelling, “Oh, I’m going to pee my pants!”

I dunno. What’s so difficult about making tea?