As I was sitting on a bench, having consumed a snack of puffed rice bread and finished off with a smoke, I was approached by a young man of unclear intentions. Have you been sitting here long? he inquired. I considered it a curious way of greeting but responded that not really and inquired what he wanted. He wouldn’t say.
Instead, he sat down next to me and asked me what I had for breakfast. I thought it escalated quickly but decided to humour him. As far as a brief snort of I don’t eat breakfast qualifies as good-humoured. I quickly asked in turn what he ate for breakfast but didn’t really want to know. The answer was the quizzical nutrients.
The conversation continued in this vein, which soon became boring and I was no longer interested in what the man’s problem was. He eventually came clean, confessing that he was a nutrition specialist. I was too nonplussed by then to even fall into a fit of laughter at the wild idea that I would waste my non-existent money on the advice of a nutrition specialist.
I told the specialist straight away that his service was not required. When I left the bench and walked a bit on, I saw him harassing another random person in the street. I think he was doing it wrong. He didn’t even leave me his business card. I could have just as well got drunk and wanted to call him to give him my honest opinion of his nutrients.
In the light of my continuing if receding flu, I’ve embarked on tea treatment. Let it be stated for the record that I hate tea and never drink it, unless I’m convinced that tea is the last thing that stands between me and death. This time I choose life and drink tea. At least I originally thought so.
I took utmost care to select in the grocery shop what I believed was the least disgusting kind of tea. Alarmingly, I didn’t bother to read the text on the tea box until I came home. I did notice in the shop that the tea I picked didn’t contain caffeine, which I thought odd, but not inevitably evil. After all, I have coffee.
When I cooked my first batch (yes, tea is cooked, like medical drugs), I idly glanced at the box to see what I’m poisoning myself with. I saw an inexplicably cheerful note on the box saying, Did you know? Our tea doesn’t contain tea. WTF? I could tolerate caffeineless tea, but tealess tea? WTF again.
Apparently, teafree tea is all the new rage. Like pumpkin latte in autumn (which I’ve never had but assume to be sickening). So that the customer wouldn’t complain, the tealess tea is properly called Fruit Fusion. The name is a good start, but the customer could still be misled into believing that fruit fusion contains fruit.
Of course it doesn’t. Unless lemon and orange peels are considered fruit. That’s what the fruit fusion consists of, admits the label on the box. Oh, and also elderflowers. I vaguely remember elderflower sirup from my childhood. It tasted appalling, from which I deduce that it must be terribly healthy.
An apple a day keeps the doctor away. (They say.) If I could cure one disease with an apple, it would be depression. For the following noble (and not so noble) reasons: it’s a wide-spread problem; it’s subjectively hard to cope; I’d be healthy (that’s the not-so-noble reason).