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Tea Cosy

I drank too much tea. It steadied me, filled me, made me warm. I wanted more of their abundance, the detail of their sweet loveliness. Have you a cosy? I asked, knowing, almost completely knowing that they would. Of course, she said. It was a patchwork one. I placed it with something like pleasure over the china pot. The café was getting busy, alive with the voices of women more than a little excited. He had a toasted tea cake. I buttered it for him, just to catch the smell of cinnamon and sultanas.

When we got home my clothes smelt of baking.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.