All day I dream about… tea.

I think my tea has arrived. I got home yesterday at approximately seven-thirty-eight post meridian, to find a “sorry, asshole, you weren’t home” slip from the postie. “My tea!” I exclaimed, the blood rushing to parts of my body it has previously ignored. I ran up to the post office, only to find it closed. The slip said “available after 5.00 pm,” while the post office closes at six. That’s a rather narrow little window of time, isn’t it? Freakishly narrow. Perhaps just enough time to get a DeLorean up to 88 mph. I will speed home, dodging traffic like a friggin’ X-Wing, abandon my car at the side of the road when traffic gets too bad and proceed on foot. I will get there. I will get my tea. At least I’m assuming it’s my tea. It could be any number of things I’ve ordered. Westway to the World? Screener DVDs? Zines? I’m banking on tea, because that little bit of hope is all I have as I sit here, alone in the office on a Friday watching the clock tick down.