Victoria Meldrew

My friend F says she loves how excessively affronted I am about things. I reflected on this for a wee while, and it is true. I really AM. The accusation came as we were discussing the fact that she has run out of sherry and I have run out of tea bags. My dilemma is much worse I feel. I only have some nettle tea bags. Why I keep them, I don't know. I bought them when I had a bad bout of prickly heat, and L told me that nettle tea would calm it down. Nettle tea for prickly heat sounds like a double whammy, but I bought them anyway, and my giddy good god. The foulest of foulness. Like drinking water in which dock leaves previously peed on by a manky old mongrel have steeped for six months.
"I would rather" I said, "be covered in seeping pustules from head to foot for 12 months of the year than drink One More Thimbleful of nettle tea". Plus, should I taste it again I might turn into one of those nimby pillocks that flap about by the tea pot when visitors arrive, twittering "Oooh I'm sorry I only have jasmine and essence of flipflop caj, and sugar! oh, no sugar, only raw cane sugar chewed by a fairtrade farmeress and spat into a hemp sack"

Give me Tetleys. Or Yorkshire. Two bags, with proper white sugar, and a dash of milk. In a mug. Thanks.