One bright morning, Nigel woke up to discover something truly terrible—he had run out of tea. The horror. The scandal. How had he allowed this travesty to occur under his very roof?
He grabbed his keys and rushed out the door. His mission was clear: to replenish his tea supply before the day truly began.
Upon reaching the shop, Nigel stumbled into the tea aisle, panting. He scanned the shelves. Yorkshire Tea, Earl Grey, English Breakfast… But just as he reached out for his trusty box of PG Tips, a hand swooped in from the side, snatching it from the shelf.
He turned, and there stood Mrs Perkins, the nosy neighbour from down the road. She looked up at him, eyes gleaming with victory, clutching the last box of tea like a trophy. “Oh, sorry, Nigel,” she said with a smile as fake as her hair colour. “Didn’t see you there.”
Nigel forced a polite smile. “No worries, Mrs Perkins. I’m sure I’ll survive… somehow.”
But Mrs Perkins wasn’t one to let a moment of triumph slip by. “Well, dear, you know, I always keep a spare box at home. One must plan ahead.”
Nigel seethed internally. He, being lectured about tea preparedness by Mrs Perkins, a woman whose tea-brewing skills were known to be, frankly, appalling. Word on the street was that she microwaved the water.
Desperate times called for desperate measures. “Well, Mrs Perkins,” Nigel said, trying to sound casual, “perhaps we could make a trade. I noticed there’s the last bottle of elderflower cordial over there. I know how much you love it. How about I grab that for you, and we… exchange?”
Mrs Perkins raised an eyebrow. “Cordial? At this hour? Oh no, Nigel. But I suppose…” She paused dramatically, staring at the box in her hands as if she were weighing a life-altering decision. “I could be persuaded… if you did me a little favour.”
Favour? With Mrs Perkins, that could mean anything from mowing her lawn to listening to her four-hour life story—complete with her tales of how her cat, Mr Tiddles, once starred in a local advertisement.
“What kind of favour?” Nigel asked cautiously.
“Oh, nothing major,” she said, with a sly grin. “Just pop by my house tomorrow afternoon and help me… rearrange my teapots.”
Mrs Perkins’ teapot collection was notorious. The rumour was she had over 300 teapots, and she loved nothing more than making people look at each and every one, describing them in excruciating detail. But the box of PG Tips dangled before him like a lifeline.
“Deal,” Nigel muttered through gritted teeth.
The next day, true to his word, Nigel arrived at Mrs Perkins’ house. She greeted him at the door. “Lovely to see you, Nigel. Now, let’s start with my favourite—this one here I got on my trip to Devon…”
Hours passed. Nigel endured teapot after teapot, each story more mundane than the last. He nodded politely as she prattled on about glaze techniques and vintage spouts. His mind drifted to his own teapot collection at home, sitting there, abandoned, with no tea to fill them.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Mrs Perkins clapped her hands. “Well, that’s all of them! Thank you, Nigel. You’ve been such a dear. I must say, you’re the only person who’s ever listened to me about my collection without falling asleep!”
Nigel chuckled awkwardly. “Yes, well, glad I could be of help.”
As he left her house, clutching his box of PG Tips like a trophy, he vowed never to let his tea stock run out again. The taste of victory was sweet, but not as sweet as that first glorious cup of tea when he finally got home.
Robert Walker 