Octeaber: Tea Studio Camomile and unfortunate yoga flatulence

The Tale

You burst through the door of your humble abode like you are Ross Kemp ‘on gangs’. You have had the most stressful day of your professional life thus far (and indeed every sphere of your existence); your house looks like the most affected areas of war torn Basra; and you are seriously considering going against every one of your social and moral principles and employing a maid called Juanita. You need calm, you need zen, and you basically need to calm your tits the hell down.  You know what to do – you are going to go about this relaxation thing in the most irritatingly middle class way possible. Yes, you are going to strap on your Cath Kidston bag, put on your oversized (and let’s be honest, completely unflattering fashion statement) Barbour jacket, and truly exploit your Virgin Active membership by…going to a yoga class.

Yes, you think that being surrounded by yummy mummies who’s kids are called Tilly, Milly and Shitting Silly (probably), middle aged spreads and menopausal desperation whilst being pushed into the most unnatural poses made to man, will make you feel infinitely better. You peel off your middle class uniform, grab a yoga mat in your patterned pants and make your way to the centre of the yoga circle of trust (by which I mean a Mean Girls style bitch pit). It starts well – you nail down your downward dog, crush your cat cows and rodger your reclining goddess. But then comes ‘Happy Baby’? What. Da. Fuq? What does that look like? Am I expected to grab the breast of the woman next to me with my mouth, then vomit my dinner up in her hair whilst soiling myself in an imaginary nappy?!

Apparently not. You lie on your back with your knees in the air – reminiscent of preparing for the rites of female passage that is the dreaded smear test – and rock back and forth. Like a mentalist. Or a happy baby, allegedly. Nevertheless, you enjoy the utter ridiculousness of this pose, rolling around like…well, a toddler in its own fluorescent green excrement. But this beautiful, completely at one and relaxed moment is irreversibly ruined by…your lax arse. The loudest fart you have ever done explodes from your way too chilled gluteous maximus (NOT Russell Crowe in The Gladiator as I once mistakenly assumed), sounding like the yoga studio has just been rudely entered by a wayward tanker. You are now not a happy baby. You are a smelly, humiliated failure of a middle class baby. As it is National Poetry Day, you sum this experience up in your head:

Yoga is shit,

Don’t even start,

Rather tea & sit,

Than do a huge fart.

Only one thing that can cheer you up, which you probably should have thought of the moment you stepped through the door into Basra. A decent calming tea. A hug in a mug. A kiss in a cup.

Can’t believe you didn’t rub your two brain cells together to think of that before. Bell end.

Damn you're a sex-tea bitch
Damn you’re a sex-tea bitch

The Tea

So, yoga flatulence led me to try Tea Studio’s Camomile for the first time. Their blend hails from Croatia, is completely caffeine free and only contains handpicked wild blossoms. Posh brew you see – probably has a sprog called Tarquinius. It also has exceptional experimental art on the packet from Here Design, so I could at least pretend I don’t suck at being middle class as much as I suck at fancying men. Now, I’m normally not a flowery tea kinda girl, I’m usually a racy slag for a bad boy black tea with an STD. But I was feeling delicate, elegant and like a little waif-like woman of the 19th Century in an impractical dress, so I reached for Tea Studio’s gentle infusion. *Sighs femininely…rather than like a bull dyke as normal*

Aside from being impressed with the packet, I was equally impressed with the natural beau-tea of the dried camomile leaves that peeked at me from the inside. Just LOOK at them. They made me quiver with Instagram filter an-tea-cipation. The packaging was FIT. The loose leaf was FIT. And the smell was – predictably – FIT with honey high notes and a glorious floral undertone. I know – I sound like I own a doily collection and cut the crusts off my sandwiches. From the off this infusion was  effortlessly divine, like one of those annoyingly stunning people that you know who is also clever, sporty AND a nice person. This brew is so irritatingly good looking – like Jennifer Lawrence or Tom Hardy (or your secret crushes Jeremy Clarkson and Anne Widdecombe) – that it was awarded a Great Taste Award in 2013 for being so bloody lovely. It even made the Top 50 Foods for that year too. In other words, it was top in the class, head girl AND prom queen. Bitch.

Like a meadow...
Like a meadow…

 The Taste

Previous incarnations of camomile that I have tried tasted like sawdust, illness and depression. However, Tea Studio‘s offering tasted like running carefree through a meadow, pouring honey all over yourself and rolling through the summer leaves with your dream beau (for me today, this is Emily Blunt – GODDESS). Once brewed for about ten minutes (slightly longer than your average black tea to ensure the flavour is truly extracted), I took my first, heavenly sip of this tea in my fart-trapped-in-the-weave yoga pants. It was liquid calm. Light and refined, the floral warmth of the camomile bud hit my tongue first, with an almost creamy mouthfeel and addictive honey after-taste. It definitely did not taste like eating the offcuts from a wood work lesson. I think this is hands down the most delightful floral loose leaf tea that I have ever tried. I’m not even going to follow up with a sarcastic comment, it was THAT good. I forgot about my yoga touching cloth situation, I felt de-stressed, AND spiritually put two fingers up to the yummy mummy yoga Gestapo for not trumping liquid gold that smells like lavender whilst rolling around like a manic infant on the floor. Tea Studio, I doff my northern flat cap to you m’ducks. Reet good brew you got there.

T’VERDICT

Are you a middle class failure like me? Are you a bit frazzled around the edges? Prozac a little too expensive? Then look no further than the stupidly good looking, the inconceivably tasty and undeniably phenomenal Tea Studio Camomile Tea. You should also check out Tea Studio events, that run in London and Brighton, just to really show Penelope and Camilla from the gym how cultured you are…which is exactly why I am going to two days of them in December. So get yourself some calming camomile, and feel more zen than the Dalai Lama on a spa holiday in Barbados.

REMEMBER WHY WE ARE DOING THIS…

CONTINUE TO SHOW YOUR SUPPORT BY DONATING ONLINE AT THE JUSTGIVING PAGE, ATTENDING SOME OF THE MUGEN TEA HOUSE FUNDRAISING TEA TASTING EVENINGS, AND GET INVOLVED WITH THE TWITTER HYPE!

Don’t forget to check back tomorrow for the next instalment of my daily Octeaber blog challenge

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3 thoughts on “Octeaber: Tea Studio Camomile and unfortunate yoga flatulence

  1. I love your poem. And actually everything in this post. I have always wanted really badly to like camomile. I expect it to taste like honey and sunshine, but it usually tastes, exactly as you have described, like “sawdust, illness and depression.” Thrilled to know the camomile of my dreams is out there.

    Liked by 1 person

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