British tea-time tradition is steeped in history. Afternoon tea became fashionable in the 19th century as a stop-gap between lunch and dinner, which was often served as late as 8 p.m. A meal taken while relaxing on easy chairs or in the garden, it comprised tea, scones and cakes. High tea is a more formal occasion.
Great Britain, 1952
Teatime at Auntie Flo’s was a ritual. The coming afternoon was no exception. I had particularly wanted my hair loose, for a change, but mum had been adamant that Auntie Flo would not approve.
The girl who lived next door, Joanne, would almost certainly be all pink and dainty with a big bow. I, on the other hand would be in school skirt and pigtails. As it was futile to argue, I settled for the fact that Joanne definitely had piggy eyes.
On arrival at Auntie Flo’s, she gave us the ‘once over’ before we were allowed in. Her bird- like features moved in little bouncing nods of approval, as she looked at my shiny shoes and pigtails.
We were ushered into the ‘front room’ to await tea. Tea Not just a cup of tea, but ‘high tea’, mum had pointed out to me on many occasions. Sometimes there were winkles with the bread and butter. I liked to stick the little black bit on the end of the winkle onto my face and pretend it was a beauty spot.
Several neighbours had already arrived and Joanne, as predicted, was dressed in sickly pink.
There was a sharp knocking at the door. Uncle Bill looked at Auntie Flo. “Ignore it,” she said, adjusting her hairnet. The knocking persisted until a cheery voice called “hello”.
Auntie Flo’s lips thinned. After a moment Uncle Bill edged towards the door, in the absence of an instruction.
“Make it quick,” said Auntie Flo, with the smallest shift of her eyes.
I could hear the buzz of conversation from the front door and badly wanted to rush out and discover who the intruder was. As Uncle Bill edged back into the room, I detected a whiff of cigarette smoke, followed by PC Hammond. He flexed his knees like a pantomime policeman before reporting that someone had been robbed that morning and we needed to keep an ‘eye out’ for anything suspicious.
He momentarily awaited a response, then turned and left. At last we were given the command to enter the dining room and yippee, there were the winkles. Auntie Flo carried in the extra- large teapot, using two hands.
“Is it still hot, dear?" Uncle Bill asked.
No answer.
“How much did the robber get?” Joanne asked.
No answer.
The food looked back from the radiance of the white cloth appealingly. Eat me, it seemed to signal.
“Can we start Bill?” someone said, but Uncle Bill held up his hand to indicate ‘not yet’.
There was a paralysing pause, and Auntie Flo looked at each one of us in turn before lowering the teapot onto its stand.
“Now you can start,” she said.
Great Britain, 1952
Teatime at Auntie Flo’s was a ritual. The coming afternoon was no exception. I had particularly wanted my hair loose, for a change, but mum had been adamant that Auntie Flo would not approve.
The girl who lived next door, Joanne, would almost certainly be all pink and dainty with a big bow. I, on the other hand would be in school skirt and pigtails. As it was futile to argue, I settled for the fact that Joanne definitely had piggy eyes.
On arrival at Auntie Flo’s, she gave us the ‘once over’ before we were allowed in. Her bird- like features moved in little bouncing nods of approval, as she looked at my shiny shoes and pigtails.
We were ushered into the ‘front room’ to await tea. Tea Not just a cup of tea, but ‘high tea’, mum had pointed out to me on many occasions. Sometimes there were winkles with the bread and butter. I liked to stick the little black bit on the end of the winkle onto my face and pretend it was a beauty spot.
Several neighbours had already arrived and Joanne, as predicted, was dressed in sickly pink.
There was a sharp knocking at the door. Uncle Bill looked at Auntie Flo. “Ignore it,” she said, adjusting her hairnet. The knocking persisted until a cheery voice called “hello”.
Auntie Flo’s lips thinned. After a moment Uncle Bill edged towards the door, in the absence of an instruction.
“Make it quick,” said Auntie Flo, with the smallest shift of her eyes.
I could hear the buzz of conversation from the front door and badly wanted to rush out and discover who the intruder was. As Uncle Bill edged back into the room, I detected a whiff of cigarette smoke, followed by PC Hammond. He flexed his knees like a pantomime policeman before reporting that someone had been robbed that morning and we needed to keep an ‘eye out’ for anything suspicious.
He momentarily awaited a response, then turned and left. At last we were given the command to enter the dining room and yippee, there were the winkles. Auntie Flo carried in the extra- large teapot, using two hands.
“Is it still hot, dear?" Uncle Bill asked.
No answer.
“How much did the robber get?” Joanne asked.
No answer.
The food looked back from the radiance of the white cloth appealingly. Eat me, it seemed to signal.
“Can we start Bill?” someone said, but Uncle Bill held up his hand to indicate ‘not yet’.
There was a paralysing pause, and Auntie Flo looked at each one of us in turn before lowering the teapot onto its stand.
“Now you can start,” she said.