Tea Wash

I have watched my supply of Figuro tea (for people who care about their figures) dwindle over the course of my detox and finally got around to going to the shop to get more tea. Luckily, all my virtuousness has been catching and my colleague, a one-time coffee addict has seen the light and reformed. Yes, she has joint my herby tea drinking club. Our desks look like we are running a tea shop and our mugs are oft adorned with what looks like it can only be warm wee and smells like a compost heap.

But as I was saying, the Figuro tea supply has been dwindling. So off I trot to the shop to stock up on more teas. You would not believe how long I managed to spend in the tea aisle. I am, truly, a marketer's dream. Totally sucked in by the colourful packaging and promises of holistic happiness (I bought a tea claiming to be "for people who care about their figures", for goodness sake). My colleague had come along with me and settled relatively quickly on more Figuro tea, while I ummed and ahhhed over the relative merits of a tea named after a samurai master's dead servant (killed by the samurai himself - a nasty case of acting before thinking) and an ayurvedic tea, claiming to bring balance to my otherwise unsettled life.

Finally I settled on Dr Stuart's naturally caffeine free Detox tea - which will apparently spruce up my insides. Well phew. I have to admit that I have been thinking of late how drab my insides really are and what a sprucing up they need (and appropriately, the tea box has a picture of a lady on the front of it with a washing machine in place of a stomach - gettit? - Not sure what the doughnut boobs she's got are about, but let's not get into that).

My colleague and I then made our way to the chocolate aisle, which we managed to spend a healthy amount of time in without buying anything (pats on the back all round).

Upon getting back to the office I hastily opened the tea box. You'd have thought that I was used to the olfactory horrors or herbal teas by now (the Figuro tea smells like something you would only drink if you were trying to hasten your death), however I was not prepared for this. Even through my bunged up, snotty nose, the scent of gardens could not fail to reach me. And not those nice gardens with lots of flowers and a gardener. No. no. The type of garden that has been allowed to over-grow. It smells like it's been rolling in a stingy nettle patch and got some chewing gum stuck to its back, whilst chewing on a bit of liquorice. Nice, eh? But at least I know while I'm drinking it that my stomach is on a non-fast coloured, hot wash.