A Placatory Cream Tea

You wait all through the cold, deluged months of English weather for your first cream tea of the year and then suddenly the opportunity to have one is everywhere. If it had not been for my indulgence yesterday, not only would I have let a Government Minister buy me a cup of Earl Grey today, I would have taken him up on his offer to experience the Devonshire tea on offer at Portcullis House. However, two cream teas less than 30 hours apart are a bit too much, even for a wanton devourer like me.

Despite not being a huge fan of New Labour, there are some Government Ministers it is hard not to like. A dancing intelligence, a surprising patina of charisma for someone still relatively young and an obvious bit of nous is always an attractive combination. Throw in the sort of easy charm that offers of a placatory cream tea as an apology for already understandable lateness and you are faced with a Minister that could make you momentarily forget about the Counter-Terrorism Bill.

Sitting around the table, it became clear we would both rather enjoy a discussion on reasons for political non-engagement at a community level and how the hippy influence can still be felt in Californian corporate culture. As my tea cooled to a drinkable temperature it became impossible not to think: “It is a shame they are not giving you the same hype as James Purnell. You might actually get my vote.”

Summer Started Today at 12:54pm

Some count summer starting with the solstice or the predictability of Test Match rain, but for me, the season begins with my first cream tea of the year. It has to be the proper thing though. A scone with just the right amount of crumbliness; strawberry jam rich in ripe fruit flavour, not just a sugary red spread and clotted cream, real clotted cream. Not some facsimile which has never seen a shallow pan. Oh, and it has to be washed down with a cup of tea just the right shade of kiln-baked orange clay.

By this reckoning, summer started today at 12:54pm. It happened while I sat in the brick-vaulted crypt of St John’s in Smith Square. No sunlight disturbed the depths of the finest English Baroque footstool in the land, but as the taste of the cream tea filled my mouth, my soul was dreaming blue skies and lying on green grass while skin was butterfly kissed by a warm breeze.