Occasionally, I have tea with Carrie Fisher. She’s much softer face to face. I think we both like the time we spend together because it distracts us from our real lives – her from her fame, me from my lack of any. It’s an innocent enough pursuit: we order tea – usually just a pot between us – nothing fancy. And we just chat. Most times, however, I wake up before the tea arrives. I’m usually quite sad about this.
It’s a mutual thing; not like a date or anything. She knows that I’m one of the few guys who didn’t fancy her in Star Wars, and I think that makes her feel at ease with me.
‘It’s not that you’re not an attractive lady,’ I tell her, ‘It’s probably that you just had stupid hair.’
She laughs as the waiter approaches with a pewter tea pot, two white china cups and saucers, a tiny milk jug, and the sugar bowl that neither of us will touch.
Earl Grey is her favourite and, as I don’t mind it, I generally accept this concession. Personally, I prefer a simple Breakfast Tea but she insists that that is for breakfast only. I think it’s her way of keeping a platonic distance between us. She can be a bit proper about some things.
I look forward to our tea together. Carrie’s life is different to mine – in some ways easier, in others more difficult. I glance at the display set down before us. ‘Maybe someday I’ll actually get to drink this before I wake,’ I say.
She smiles. ‘I hope so.’
This morning is yet another in which I wake before I get to pour. I drag myself out of bed and go downstairs to switch on the kettle. I think that the act of making tea can be quite a meditative thing.
I reach for the instant coffee and take the milk from the fridge. There’s no meditation for me this morning, just a quick burst of caffeine, a shower, and a day of work ahead of me. There’s a slight sadness in my cup as I feel the residual memories of my brief time with Carrie already ebbing away.
Hopefully, we’ll get to order tea together again, soon.
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