You call this tea? It was very kind of you to offer, and it was very kind of you to go and make it, and it was very kind of you to bring it back to my desk so that I could carry on working uninterrupted. But really, you shouldn't.
You call this tea? You weren't away for long enough, surely. It's been barely a minute since you took my mug away, and yet here you are back again with a mug of steaming brown liquid. I say brown, but it's more like a faint shade of beige. What did you do, dip the teabag in the water for a few seconds and then throw it away? Tea takes time to brew properly, a couple of minutes at least, in order to let the flavour out. You'd know that if you were a proper tea drinker, not just an occasional coffee absentee. What you've brought me is an insipid tasteless weak tea, which isn't much better than drinking hot water straight from the kettle. I'll give it a miss, if you don't mind.
You call this tea? It looks dangerously over-stewed to me. The teabag's been squeezed to within an inch of its life, with every last dribble of brown oozed out into the muggy waters. How long did you leave it in there? I bet you stood there yapping and gossiping in the kitchen with the other officefolk for so long that you forgot to take the bag out. So it floated there, and it floated there, and it seriously outstayed its welcome. Way past the optimum moment of infusion, well into the over-absorbed zone - a potentially perfect cuppa spoiled and wasted. It tastes more like swallowing a cardboard box than proper tea, and it's all your fault. I think I'll leave it to go cold, thanks.
You call this tea? I call it milk. There may have been some tea in there once, but you've completely drowned it in a sea of cow juice. What was the problem? Did you not know when to stop, pouring and pouring until there was more milk in the mug than in the bottle? Did your hand slip, or was this lactose inundation deliberate? That's not the way to make a decent brew. Tea should be brown, or even black, never white. I know that's the way you like it, all milked up to within an inch of its life, but most of us aren't as extreme as you. Never assume that your tea preferences are shared with others, because I certainly don't drink it your way. Personally I prefer tea, not milk.
You call this tea? There's a big brown drip all around the bottom of the mug, plus a suspicious number of stains dotted all along the rim. What were you doing with that teabag? Did you dangle it on its little string repeatedly in and out of the mug, causing droplets of brown to splatter everywhere? Did you overfill with milk so that the liquid cascaded over the edge and gathered in little puddles on the work surface? Or did you just wobble slightly on the walk back from the kitchen and make a bit of a mess in mid-air. Whatever, you've just plonked down your tea on my desk and left a big circular wet patch all over that really important document I'm working on. Thanks for that. Next time perhaps you could bring a tissue.
You call this tea? I'd have done a much better job myself. I'd have made tea for the right length of time, with the right amount of milk, with the right amount of care and attention. I'd have made the right strength brew with a taste I actually like, and not some imperfect drink that I'll merely tolerate rather than enjoy. I was looking forward to my morning cuppa, but I'm afraid I'm not going to enjoy the brew you've concocted at all. So maybe this afternoon I'll get my own back by offering to make you a mug of tea. It'll be just how I like it - not too weak, not too strong, not too milky - which means I bet you'll absolutely hate it. I call that tea.
