The 5:30am Firelighter Tea Ritual

There is something quietly heroic about a man creeping round his own house at dawn like an amateur cat burglar.

I rise between 4:30 and 05:00. Not because I am virtuous. Not because I am disciplined. But because at that hour the world has not yet started shouting, and it feels like borrowed time.

Our place is open plan, with minstrel galleries at either end, so any sound travels as if announced by town crier. If I drop a teaspoon in the kitchen, it echoes like a musket shot at Trafalgar.

So I pad about, silent as a mouse with a pension pot, and begin the ritual. Half an hour on Flipboard, digesting the decline of Western civilisation. Occasionally I will compile a blog post while the rest of the house remains blissfully unaware that it is being intellectually improved.

The cat is fed, and reacts as if I personally engineered Brexit. The fire is lit. Firelighters are deployed with the sort of calm deliberation normally associated with naval gunnery.

Then comes the tender domestic act. I make Hay her morning tea and around 05:30.

This is where the confession lurks.

I squeeze the teabag. Yes, I know the spoon would suffice, but no. I go in with fingers and determination, extracting every last drop of flavour like a Victorian mill owner determined to maximise output.

And those fingers, moments earlier, have often handled firelighters.

Paraffin. Kerosene. A suggestion of rural forecourt.

I present the mug and announce, with the confidence of a man who has never read a toxicology report, “Your morning cup of firelighter.”

Over the winter I have probably been running a low level domestic experiment. Not enough to trouble the NHS. Just enough, perhaps, to give the tea a faint aftertaste of camping weekend in 1978.

The science suggests the risk is negligible. The theatre of it, however, is magnificent. We agonise over seed oils and air quality while quietly introducing a hint of petrochemical character to breakfast.

Hay remains alive, lucid, and fully capable of dismantling my arguments before 7am, which suggests either the dosage is minimal, or she has developed resilience worthy of the Royal Navy.

If she ever acquires the ability to self ignite during a particularly heated political discussion, I shall accept responsibility.

Until then, I continue my dawn patrol. 4:30. Silence. Cat. Fire. Tea. A Regency gentleman with a box of firelighters and a slightly questionable approach to beverage hygiene.