Father: (standing up at dining table after dinner) Who would like a cup of tea?
John: Me!
Jennifer: Me!
Philip: Me!
Marjorie: Me!
Bernard: Me!
Patrick: Me!
Father: (sitting back down again) Well make me one while you’re at it.
Alannah hated tea. Well, “hated” might be a bit strong. She didn’t like tea. She never drank tea. She always drank coffee.
The first thing that husband Eugene did when he came home from work was to make a pot of tea. It was a little strange, he thought, that the teapot was already mildly warm. He never said anything, but he wondered why. A few days later the teapot was again warm.
“Have there being visitors?” asked Eugene.
“No,” said Alannah. “Why?”
“Nothing. Just wondered,” said Eugene. He didn’t want to give away why he was suspicious. If Alannah was “having someone around” he didn’t want to remove the evidence of a warm but emptied teapot once every several days.
After several weeks Eugene had had enough. “Look,” he said, “I know you have a visitor come every couple of days because you make tea. What’s going on? Who is it?”
“It’s no one,” said Alannah.
“Then why’s the teapot warm?” asked Eugene. “You don’t like tea.”
“I’m trying to grow to like tea,” said Alannah. It was clearly a lie. From then on the teapot was never warm. Alannah would rinse it with cold water.
Eugene’s birthday came. Alannah produced a special lemon tree growing in half a wine barrel. Eugene had drooled over it in the plant shop.
“At last!” exclaimed Alannah. “The truth can come out. They said to water it with cold tea.”
Pamela was a sound sleeper. She lived alone. She locked the house thoroughly each night before she went to bed. The neighbours were a bit strange – especially the wife. She was a bit of a recluse. Pamela had met her just the once. Word had it that she had been in and out of psychiatric care centres throughout her life.
It may have been because of this that Pamela was nervously suspicious. She had suspected for quite some time that strange things happened in the night. She was always meticulous about things, and sometimes she noticed that some household items had been moved ever so slightly, or even that she ran out of tea bags faster than she should. In fact she counted the tea bags. She used two tea bags a day. The seventy-eight tea bags in the box should last for thirty-nine days. She marked the date on her wall calendar.
Ashley, the neighbour, was a bit strange, but not as strange as his wife. He would come over once a week to Pamela’s for a cup of coffee. Pamela had never warmed to him. But a neighbour is a neighbour and it was after all only about thirty minutes in her week that his visits lasted. His wife never came with him.
Now the doctor had told Pamela to go easy on the sugar, so she filled the sugar bowl (in case visitors came and took sugar) and put the sugar bowl high in the cupboard. That was the last time she used it. It was a lot easier to give up sugar than she had expected.
When Ashley came over next she filled the conversation with the usual small talk. She had given up sugar. Did he still want sugar in his coffee? Perhaps he would prefer a cup of tea?
“Oh,” said Ashley, “I think you’re out of tea bags.”
When Anita got to the last sip of her tea at the rather sophisticated afternoon tea-party there was an engagement ring at the bottom of her cup. Her first thought was “I was lucky not to have swallowed all those diamonds”. Then she wondered whose ring may have slipped off as they drank tea and she had picked up the wrong cup. And then she wondered, “I wonder if this ring was meant for me? I have dated two of the men here but I doubt that either was serious enough.”
She glanced around. No one seemed to be watching her. No one seemed to be waiting for a “Yes!” No one seemed to be anticipating a surreptitious shriek of excitement to escape her cherry red lips.
If the proposal was real it would be so banal to simply say, “Hey! Look what I found!” She would spend an entire marriage living with the dullness of having not looked pleased at the marriage proposal.
George came over to her. He was undoubtedly the handsomest man there – or so Anita thought – although he wasn’t one of the two that Anita had been out on dates with.
“How’s it going?” said George.
“Good,” said Anita. “And how are you?”
“Good,” said George. “Would you like another cup of tea?”
“I’d love one,” said Anita.
George took Anita’s cup and saucer and headed for the table with the teapot. He returned.
“Thank you so much,” said Anita. George moved further around the room.
Needless to say, Anita was rather keen to get to the bottom of her cup. Was the ring still there? She was halfway through sips of her too, too hot tea when Berwyn began squealing in the far corner of the room.
“Oh George! Oh yes! Yes! Yes! Oh Georgie darling! Yes! Yes! Yes!”
The late King of Thailand had a fairly long name.
Queen: Would you like a cup of tea, Vajiralongkorn Borommachakkrayadisonsantatiwong Thewetthamrongsuboriban Aphikhunuprakanmahittaladunladet Phumiphonnaretwarangkun Kittisirisombunsawangkhawat Borommakhattiyaratchakuman?
King: Yes, darling, that would be lovely.
Queen: Would you like it with milk this time, Vajiralongkorn Borommachakkrayadisonsantatiwong Thewetthamrongsuboriban Aphikhunuprakanmahittaladunladet Phumiphonnaretwarangkun Kittisirisombunsawangkhawat Borommakhattiyaratchakuman, or would you like it without?
King: I’ll have it with milk, thanks darling.
Queen: Sugar, Vajiralongkorn Borommachakkrayadisonsantatiwong Thewetthamrongsuboriban Aphikhunuprakanmahittaladunladet Phumiphonnaretwarangkun Kittisirisombunsawangkhawat Borommakhattiyaratchakuman?
King: Yes.
Queen: One or two lumps, Vajiralongkorn Borommachakkrayadisonsantatiwong Thewetthamrongsuboriban Aphikhunuprakanmahittaladunladet Phumiphonnaretwarangkun Kittisirisombunsawangkhawat Borommakhattiyaratchakuman?
King: Two, thanks.
Queen: Would you like a cookie with that Vajiralongkorn Borommachakkrayadisonsantatiwong Thewetthamrongsuboriban Aphikhunuprakanmahittaladunladet Phumiphonnaretwarangkun Kittisirisombunsawangkhawat Borommakhattiyaratchakuman?
King: Oh for crying out loud; the bloody tea’s gone cold again.
The thing that irked Iris wasn’t so much Harvey’s little eccentricities, but the fact that the poison hadn’t worked. They had been married for thirty-two years and for the last twenty-seven Harvey had driven Iris nuts. He’d squeeze the toothpaste tube, for example, at the top. It should be squeezed at the bottom. That way the paste would work its way up to the top. If you squeezed it at the top all you’re doing is driving half of the toothpaste downwards.
Then there was the way he’d spin the teapot before pouring. He’d turn the teapot three times to the left, then three times to the right, then once to the left; to aid the tea drawing process. Iris had been brought up the proper way, and she turned the teapot first to the right, then to the left, then to the right. Harvey was not going to compromise. He was stuck in the mud. He was what Iris called “a social embarrassment”.
Iris didn’t know how many times she told him, on a daily basis, when putting things into the dishwasher he should RINSE THEM FIRST. The dishes should be rinsed first; that’s what the instruction booklet said. RINSE THE DISHES FIRST. But no! In they went; straight into the dishwasher.
These were just a few of the things that riled Iris every day, all day, for twenty-seven out of the thirty-two years of wedded bliss. The solution to the problem lay in rat poison. If ever there was a rat, it was Harvey. Iris no longer cared about the consequences. Iris loved the irony of the possibility: rat poison for a rat. She put it in his food, in his coffee, even in the snuff he grotesquely sniffed about four times a day before sneezing loudly into a snuff-stained handkerchief.
It was all for nothing. Harvey seemed to have developed an immunity to rat poison. The worst rats sometimes do that.
Things came to an end when Iris, not Harvey, took ill and died. It was a slow, drawn out, painful death, in which she convulsed and writhed on the bedroom floor for a good half hour while Harvey meticulously filled the dishwasher in the kitchen, and poured himself a single cup of tea.
Una and Rory had been married for fifty-two years. For fifty-two years Rory had devoured a boiled egg for breakfast. One egg and a slice of toast. Una made it for him every morning.
Rory was a little fussy; the egg had to be dark brown. Brown eggs were healthy. White eggs were feeble and lacked vitamins and health. A daily dark brown egg it had to be. Brown eggs came from healthy, robust chickens.
“It’s the brown eggs what done it,” said Rory on his eightieth birthday. Which just goes to show that Una’s secret of boiling a white egg in tea was good for the health.
Gidday. As some of you know, when it comes to a significant number, in this case Story 1111, I like to depart a little from the usual. However, I hope there is something here of interest.
I am a New Zealander, but lived, studied, and worked for some time in North America, namely Massachusetts, North Carolina, and Quebec. I don’t know much about what happens in other places, but there is a presumption that some words mean the same when in fact they don’t! We might read each other’s writings and presume we know what is meant by certain words. This posting will give a few examples.
1. Tea and Supper
Visitors to New Zealand from North America get caught out. Someone might say: “Tea is at 5.30 and we have supper about 9.30”. The guests can’t believe how much is devoured at 5.30. They politely nibble and await 9.30 for supper. Supper time comes and it’s a cup of tea! Tea is the main evening meal. Supper is a cup of tea or milk chocolate or even a wee nip of brandy or whatever before bed. A lot of New Zealanders would think that “The Last Supper” would not be a meal.
2. Rooting
One hears an American cheerleader declare that she is “rooting for the team”. “Rooting” in New Zealand is the colloquial expression for “having sex”.
3. Boots and Bonnets
In New Zealand:
A car’s trunk is a boot.
A car’s hood is a bonnet.
Gas is petrol.
A service station or a gas station is a petrol station.
Swiss chard is silver beet.
Rutabaga is swede.
A crib is a bassinet.
A diaper is a nappy.
A speed bump is a judder bar.
A rectory is a presbytery.
Ground meat is mince.
A chicken is a chook.
A bell pepper is a capsicum.
American football is gridiron.
Field hockey is hockey. Ice hockey is “ice hockey” and never simply “hockey”.
Rugby is football.
Football is soccer.
A woollen pullover is a jersey.
If you’re pissed off, you’re annoyed; if you’re pissed, you’re drunk.
French fries are chips.
Chips are chippies. A chippy is not a bimbo! A chippy is not a fish and chip shop! A chippy, if not edible, is a carpenter!
A baguette is a French roll. And on that note, most donuts and bagels made in New Zealand are horrible. Most donuts and bagels made in the States are to die for!
A dumpster is a skip.
Jello is jelly.
4. No and Yes
When I was in Boston I was known as the person who said “No” for “Yes”, and “Yes” for “No”.
Supposing I was dining at someone’s place in Boston:
Host: Would you like some more?
Me: Thanks.
And they would take my plate away because they took it to mean “No thanks”. Generally speaking, I found Americans say “Please” if they want a second helping. New Zealanders always say “Thanks” for more and “No thanks” for no more.
5. You’re welcome
The expression “You’re welcome” is creeping into New Zealand parlance. The more common (and older) expression in response to a person’s thanks is “No worries”:
“Thanks for doing the dishes.”
“No worries.”
Ending a phone call was always a bother for me when in America:
Me: Thanks.
American: You’re welcome.
Me: Thanks.
American: You’re welcome.
Me: Thanks.
American: You’re welcome.
Me: Thanks.
American: You’re welcome.
In the end I would hang up feeling uncomfortable, because “Thanks” in New Zealand acts as an ending. I never realised this until I got stuck on the phone!
6. Gidday and Cheerio.
“Cheerio” for “goodbye” is disappearing I think, but “Gidday” is still here! When I was in Boston everyone would say “Cheerio” to me with a slight plum in their accent! They were taking the mickey out of me because I grew up with “Cheerio” as an expression for “See you later!”
When I was a kid, “Hi!” was regarded as very American; sort of in the same ilk as “Howdy”. Then “Hi!” took over the world!
7. Cheers and Have a nice day.
These are expressions I never grew up with and am uncomfortable with them to this day! Cheers! was used as a toast before an alcoholic drink and that’s okay; now “cheers” seems to have the added connotation of “thanks” or “goodbye”.
What I don’t like about “Have a nice day” is the word “nice”. Nice is such a below average concept. If I say something is “nice” I really mean it is horrible but I’m being polite. “Quite nice” is even worse.
8. Salad and Main
When I first landed in LA, everything was exciting. I was on my own and hungry. I found a place to eat and ordered. The waitress asked if I wanted a salad. I said yes. The salad came out, and I waited and waited for my meal to arrive. In the end I ate the salad and then the meal came out. In New Zealand we pile the salad onto the plate with everything else. Sometimes the salad is in a separate dish but only if you want to have “a touch of class”. It’s not eaten first or separately. The first time I saw salad in a separate dish was at a restaurant with my elderly mother. She said, “How are meant to eat this politely?”
An entrée is served before the main course. It is not the main course.
9. Bills and checks
In America in a restaurant one asks for the check and pays with a bill. In New Zealand one asks for the bill and pays with a cheque. Of course these days one just waves a bank card!
10. Tipping
In New Zealand there is no tipping. In the United States, I would worry the whole time, trying to work out how much to tip – getting a haircut, eating a meal… In New Zealand, the tip is included in the bill (oops! check). So don’t pay twice!
11. Cookies and biscuits
The term “cookie” is not used in New Zealand. It’s called a biscuit. In North Carolina, say in Taco Bell, a biscuit was some sort of bread, shaped like a scone. I said, “I’m sorry but I ordered a biscuit and not a scone”.
12. Eftpos
Since the late 80s New Zealanders have paid by Eftpos (Electronic funds transfer at point of sale). Cash can still be used if you have any. Some parts of the world still use the EFTPOS system sparingly, but here it covers the entire country. I haven’t used cash money for maybe ten years. I think a different word other than Eftpos is used in some places overseas, but I don’t know what it is. In New Zealand everyone calls it eftpos.
13. Cornmeal, cornflour and corn starch
These days I get muddled with these terms. There was a time when I knew… Cornflour in New Zealand is the fine stuff, so if you’re in the Americas and using a New Zealand/Australian recipe to make a pavlova, then use the corn stuff you might use to thicken gravy!
Conversely, if you’re in New Zealand and making something from an American recipe, don’t presume that all cornmeal is the coarse stuff. If you’re in New Zealand and the recipe calls for corn starch, use cornflour!
14. Knives and forks
Until I went to America I’d never used a fork politely in my right hand. If as kids we used the fork bent upwards we would be told to stop shovelling the food. No! The fork was held in the left hand, the knife in the right. The fork was bent down which made it almost impossible to eat peas! We still usually use the knife and fork this way.
15. Pumpkin
Pumpkin is a vegetable, along with potatoes and so on. Pumpkin pie is beginning to creep in, but more as a novelty and a slightly exotic foreign thing to do. Most of my family wouldn’t touch pumpkin pie: “Yuk! It’s a vegetable!” Personally I love it!
In the long run, no one gives a hoot – the world has grown so small. But these are some of the words and phrases and doings that I have come across that lend confusion to our wonderful world. It’s probably enough until Story 2222.
Have a nice day! And cheerio for now!
Arnold had no idea when he got out of bed that he’d be electrocuted by the toaster that very morning.
His early mornings always followed the same pattern: rise at twenty minutes passed six, fill the kettle with water and place it on an element on the stove top (it wasn’t one of those automatic turn-off kettles; it was an old-fashioned kettle that whistled when it was time to take it off the heat source), put four slices of bread in the toaster, and pour a little bit of milk into one of the two cups.
Arnold’s wife, Janet, always stayed in bed until a few minutes after the kettle whistled. She would leave just enough time for the tea to draw and the toast to toast. Arnold, for forty-eight years, had always called out the same questions from the kitchen to the bedroom:
“How many slices of toast do you want, dear?”
“Two as usual, thanks dear.”
“What do you want on the toast, dear?”
“Honey as usual, dear.”
Janet snuggled up in the warm bed for the few remaining minutes. She would stay there for a little longer than usual.
The kettle whistled, and whistled. And whistled…
Well, we have finally met Mr and Mrs Fawcett. We were invited for morning tea. Quite frankly there were a number of things we found disturbing.
Mrs Fawcett, I cannot bring myself to call her Edna, especially after having met her just the once, made the tea using teabags. It’s a process I don’t overly mind, especially if one is in a hurry; and we were in a hurry given what I have to tell you next. We couldn’t wait to drink our tea and leave.
She put the milk in with the teabag. I can think of little else so disgusting. Milk in the cup with the tea bag! After which boiling water was added. But, for that brief moment, when milk sits at the bottom of the cup with the teabag in a sort of brown gunk! Yuck! None of our children were brought up to do that, unlike the children of Mr and Mrs Fawcett. It’s all most unacceptable. And all served in Duralex tempered glass cups!
Mrs Fawcett couldn’t stop talking; talk, talk, talk about nothing. That was when your father had this inspired thought: it’s almost impossible to turn a Fawcett off! He was just thinking about it, and he snorted his tea all over their formica-topped table! It’s almost impossible to turn a Fawcett off! It was hilarious! Hilarious!
So dear, to cut to the chase, your father and I forbid you to marry into that family, and as far as we’re concerned the engagement is off.
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Weave a Web 