I have a problem. It’s a pretty big one at that. I feel the need to indulge my dirty habit four to five times a day, which costs me a small fortune. It all started innocently enough – I was a young man, living on my own for the first time. “Go on!” I thought. “Everyone’s doing it!”. But one turned into two turned into twenty. The worst part was everyone was doing it. Maybe there’s a small minority who know when enough is enough; if so, I’ve never seen them. Everyone else is shelling over their hard-earned cash (read: loan) for another little bag filled with leaves. I am, of course, talking about tea addiction.

On a shelf in my room that should be reserved for books is an unnecessar- ily vast collection of teas. It’s a disease – I can’t help myself buying more and more varieties. Every time I walk through the market square, the man beckons me over with his soft, familiar patter to peddle his wares and boom! Next thing I know, I’m walking home with three different varieties of Orange Pekoe. I half-forget them next to the Yerba Mate (which is horrible, for the record) until weeks later when I’m look- ing for my fix. Worse still, it makes you lose perspective – when I was told that nothing positive could be said of my essay “for all the tea in China,” I briefly considered making a counter-offer.

It’s an affliction that affects your friends. Whereas once the prospect of a cuppa and a slice of cake was enough to bring coffee-drinkers running, now they’re put off at thought of having to endure half an hour of ‘ahh – flowery, spicy with subtle ginger and rose’. Even worse is when another teaholic is skulking around and we engage in metaphorical dick-measuring contests, somehow finding merit in who has more varieties of Earl Grey. Of them, I scoff – they probably can’t tell the dif- ference between my teas. The sad thing is that, frankly, neither can I.

I’m sure I’m not alone in this disgust- ingly middle-class addiction – from personal experience I’d hazard that the average number of tea varieties in a Cambridge student’s room is greater than 2 even if you omit the crazy hoarders like me. It’s a gateway drug, of course, to buying silver tea infusers and bone china teacups (which you’ll swear by up until you have to do the washing up or use a mug). It all seems a bit unnec- essary: I’ve never had a craving for First Flush Darjeeling that couldn’t be satisfied by Assam, and I pick between them seemingly at random. Yet to fall into my trap and fetishise the providence of what goes into your cup is to miss the point entirely.

The real attraction, like that of a covertly cadged cigarette, is those five minutes of peace and quiet.Who doesn’t feel comforted by a tannic sip of lukewarm, over-brewed green tea in the library at 2 am? Or a misjudged camomile and lavender infusion during a frantic work day? We all lead busy lives (whether we broadcast it or not) and sometimes forget to devote a little time to ourselves. Why do we insist on adulterating it with a layer of pretence that is all so easily forgotten when the pressure is really on? By all means put the kettle on, but for God’s sake, just have PG Tips like a normal human being!