As I finger-stomp my keyboard, I can hear an aeroplane zoom above my head. It’s 23:42 GMT in a little woodland pocket near Heathrow airport. “Lucky buggers”, I think to myself. The prospect of a holiday is all too exciting yet distant from reality right now. That trivial thing called a master’s thesis is the responsible, almighty wedge.
“So how does this relate to tea?”, I hear you say.