Two lovely teas today. From Germany a lovely Earl Grey that I had over breakfast. It was creamy, the way we like Earl Grey but with a few floral hints. It’s technical name, after consultation with the packet, is Aged Earl Grey and we’d have it again. We had it with and without milk, and you can’t go wrong either way.
Davids Tea was an organic breakfast blend. There’s not a lot to say about this one because it does what it says on the tin. It’s a nice, sturdy breakfast tea that will get you through the day. We used it to recuperate between mass Flying Geese production. About which…
We thought you might like to see what we’ve been nattering about this last week. Now we just have to assemble the thing…
The orange squares are placeholders. We wanted to know how big they needed to be before we started cutting up the fabric we chose. That’s next on the list, in-between article writing and wrapping and all the usual Christmas addenda.
Here’s some more Wendy Cope for you as you drink your sensible breakfast tea. Though you don’t want to be drinking while reading. Otherwise you risk choking over this wonderful response to an anonymous grumble to The Times that no one commemorates engineers.
Engineers’ Corner
Why isn’t there an Engineers’ Corner in Westminster Abbey? In Britain we’ve always made more fuss of a ballad than a blueprint… How many schoolchildren dream of becoming great engineers?
— advertisement placed in The Times by the Engineering Council
We make more fuss of ballads than of blueprints —
That’s why so many poets end up rich,
While engineers scrape by in cheerless garrets.
Who needs a bridge or dam? Who needs a ditch?
Whereas the person who can write a sonnet
Has got it made. It’s always been the way,
For everybody knows that we need poems
And everybody reads them every day.
Yes, life is hard if you choose engineering —
You’re sure to need another job as well;
You’ll have to plan your projects in the evenings
Instead of going out. It must be hell.
While well-heeled poets ride around in Daimlers,
You’ll burn the midnight oil to earn a crust,
With no hope of a statue in the Abbey,
With no hope, even, of a modest bust.
No wonder small boys dream of writing couplets
And spurn the bike, the lorry and the train.
There’s far too much encouragement of poets —
That’s why this country’s going down the drain.
Tell you what; this writer will personally commission the Engineer’s Corner just as soon as they kit us out with teleportation and time travel. And none of the Fringe side-effects, if you please. We like our molecular cohesion in tact.
Chorister at Home 