A Nice Cup Of Tea

 There I was, normal bloke on a normal day. Bugger all going on. All I did was go down one alleyway. Yes, it looked like a nice place for a cup of tea. Yes, it didn’t look too expensive. No, there weren’t any dream-catchers, dangling crystal or other mystic mumbo jumbo hanging about.

I ordered a tea, and a biscuit. I should have known then, when she said “what sort of tea would you like?” and then reeled off a long list of things, most of which weren’t tea. I mean, chamomile is a flower and hence not tea. Jasmine likewise. Mint is a herb. Passion fruit is, as it says in the name, a fruit and likewise therefore not tea. And as for Chai Latte Masala - What?

“Brown, builders,” I said, “with milk and sugar separate please.” I was, possibly, a bit brusque, but nevertheless, ineffably polite. She did not look impressed. The tea arrived. I drank some. The thought ‘Luke-warm gnats piss' leapt, unbidden, to mind. I got up and left.

And then it all went a bit weird. For a start off, I seemed to have some sort of narrator living in my head speaking in an American accent. “In the heart of a decaying metropolis,” he said, “I stumbled upon a revelation that tore through the veil of ignorance like a serrated blade. It began with a whisper - a faint rustling in the shadows, a sensation that prickled at the edges of my consciousness.” Well there it was, happening, just like the voice said. It was very weird. The light seemed to be a bit off as well. Sort of purply, violet-ish. Anyway, on he went.

“Curiosity drove me deeper into the labyrinthine streets, where the echoes of forgotten souls mingled with the scent of decay. There, amidst the crumbling facades of forgotten dreams, I beheld the truth that lurked just beyond the threshold of perception.” Now, bearing in mind this is a small town in the midlands of England, there’s not a lot of beholding or threshold of perception that goes on around here. But I couldn’t deny, weird stuff was lurking, just as described.

“It was in the faces of the denizens, twisted by unseen hands into grotesque masks of agony and despair. Their eyes, hollow and vacant, betrayed a silent scream that echoed through the very marrow of their bones.” And do you know what, even the bloke in the pie shop was at it. I started to wonder what the fuck was in that tea.

And then I saw it, “but it was not until I saw the zips - the cruel, metallic seams that crisscrossed their forms like scars of some unspeakable torment - that the full weight of the revelation bore down upon me,” said the voice, helpfully.

That’s when it started to get a bit out of hand. “each zip, a binding tether to forces beyond comprehension, weaving a tapestry of suffering that stretched across the fabric of existence itself. And in that moment, I understood - I, too, was ensnared in the same malevolent design.” I did not like the way this was going at all. I just wanted to get home and get the talking tosspot out of my head and get back to normal. The narrator had other ideas though, and he set off on a massive rant which my legs just followed, as if I was someone else.

“Driven by a desperate hunger for understanding,” ‘don’t be daft,’ I thought, “I delved deeper into the bowels of the city, where the darkness reigned supreme and the whispers of forgotten gods lingered like a curse upon the air. There, amidst the ruins of forgotten empires, I discovered the truth that lay hidden beneath the surface - a truth so grotesque, so utterly incomprehensible, that it threatened to consume me whole.”

‘Here we bloody well go,’ I thought.

“The Eldritch Seamstresses, ancient beings of unfathomable power, who wove the threads of fate with callous disregard for mortal suffering. Their needles, sharpened by the blood of a thousand sacrifices, pierced the very fabric of reality, stitching together the lives of men and monsters alike.”

“Get out OF MY HEAD,” I shouted, momentarily popping back into the normal High Street and scaring the living daylights out of a lady buying a cauliflower from the greengrocer. But then, on went American Joe.

“But their design was not one of benevolence or compassion - it was a tapestry of torment, a slew of suffering that echoed through the corridors of eternity. And as I bore witness to their infernal machinations, I felt the cold grip of despair tighten around my heart. For in a world held together by zips, there could be no salvation, no redemption - only the ceaseless cycle of pain and despair, where the cries of the damned were drowned out by the howling winds of oblivion.” ‘For goodness sake, this is properly scary. I didn’t sign up for this crap,’ I thought.

Finally, I arrived home, got inside, slammed the door, took off my coat and put the kettle on. Washed my favourite mug and made a good cup of Yorkshire Tea. With properly boiling water. And milk. And three quarters of a teaspoon of sugar. It was a satisfying dark amber brown. I reached for the biscuits - digestives obviously. Nice and safe. I sat down at the kitchen table. I sipped the steaming amber nectar. Yankee Doodle was still there but getting feint, somehow.

“In the end,” he drawled, “I stood upon the precipice of madness, my soul teetering on the brink of oblivion. For in a world ruled by darkness, there could be no hope, no salvation - only the relentless march toward annihilation, where the seams of reality frayed and unraveled, and the darkness swallowed all.”

And then he was gone. The light turned back to its normal English grey. My ginger cat, Frank Cooper, came in through the cat flap, looking pleased with himself about something or other and demanding food with menaces. The fridge clicked on into ‘annoying hum mode’. The clock ticked. The washing up still needed doing.

‘Someone should write that shit down,’ I thought.