It dribbles at the spout, and that so offends me! Surely a carefully sharp edge could cut the flow crisply.

Steam drifts up from the cup, fine china not sucking away the heat prematurely, amber, golden, delicate tea looking beautiful, with one or two leaves swelling succulently in the bottom of the cup.

The china clinks and chinks with a satisfyingly stereotypically elegant set of associations. Miss Elizabeth Bennett.

The taste of butter and tannin. In the Himalaya, there truly is butter in the tea, but here it’s more of a long, almost chewable feeling on the tongue, yet with not a yak in sight.

The smell of tea leaves in a tin. The special teas I used to love, like Rose Pekoe – prising off the lid with the handle of a teaspoon, shaking the big black leaves against the ornate tin, and breathing in treacly dark, smokey smells.

The sense of repose and relaxation that a well set up tea scenario can offer – images of relaxed seating out on lavender-scented terraces, or cosy around wood stove on a crisp winter afternoon, fingerless knits clasped around an honest, steaming mug.

Sinking deeply into an armchair by the fire, legs folded under me.