I realized this morning that I am never going to like tea. I've spent a few decades trying earnestly to acquire a taste for it. But as of today, I am officially bailing on Operation Like Tea.

Oh, I like the idea of it (the ritual, the china cups, the teapot, slices of lemon, dainty sandwiches with the crusts cut off, little cakes, all that). And for years I've been feeling (even before I took up with an Englishman) that I really ought to like the stuff. But I don't. I do love the bergamot-rich scent of Earl Gray, but the taste of it does nothing for me at all. I find it generally either too bitter or too insipid, like metallic hot water with a splash of milk. And it never gives me any kind of energetic buzz, so I just don't see the point of it. At all.

"But you like Earl Gray with honey, don't you?" said Phil, who can't make it as far as the shower without a cup of strong orange pekoe.

"It's not completely awful," I admitted.

"So put honey in your tea. Lots of English people sweeten it."

We've both been reading about the amazing healing qualities of honey lately, and I've been attempting to have a little every day instead of taking vitamins. So I started to mentally go through the kitchen cupboard in which my approximately 15 varieties of abandoned tea are kept. (I told you; I've been trying. Seriously trying. I am constantly spying some new 'tea', whether from the actual tea plant or some other herbal thing, and convincing myself that I'll like it. I never do. My collection includes vanilla rooibos, lapsang suchong, lucid dream tea, jasmine tea, hibiscus tea and some godawful chocolate mint tea with candied peppermint lips in it—this last one is very fragrant and Phil insists that it isn't tea at all, but rather potpourri). I thought I might be able to get through the cinnamon tea and the lemon ginger tea with a spoon of honey, but when my imagination got to the chamomile I felt the tension stiffen my spine. I dislike chamomile so much that the mere thought of drinking it—even the thought of smelling it—causes me anxiety. (For the record, once, long long ago, I tried smoking it. And that did nothing for me either.)

"Chamomile tea stresses you out?" said Phil, choking on his morning cuppa. "You know, you don't have to like tea. Just give up."

"I am. I'm giving up. Officially, as of today."

The irony was that of course we'd been invited to a birthday tea party this afternoon. We went shopping for gifts on Commercial Drive and decided—naturally—to bring our hostess some tea. "Black tea with litchi," I said. "That sounds kind of good."

"But not for you, right?" Phil has promised not to be an enabler, and as of today he's doing his best to prevent me from adopting any new teas. "Are we talking about a gift?"

"Probably. But look at this. Green tea with rose petals. You know how much I love rose petals..."

The look he gave me reminded me that I have a sickness, possibly not yet recognized by the medical establishment. One who succumbs to pretty packaging, seductive copy and ritual, to the extent that she convinces herself, on a regular basis, that surely this tea will prove the exception to the rule. (Are there any other sufferers out there? I'd love to know that I don't have to fight this alone.)

A few hours later we left for the tea party with our wrapped birthday gifts, and tucked under my arm, a bottle of Therapy's Freudian Sip. I felt a little debauched sipping wine with my smoked tuna and cucumber sandwiches while everyone else drank milky tea from china cups, but there you have it. I no doubt am—possibly more than a little—debauched.

I fully expect to hear from a few people who will ask, with every good intention, "Have you tried blah blah or whatsit?" But I'm telling you, I probably have, and if I haven't, I'm not going to. It's officially over between me and tea, and the horrid stuff with the candied peppermint lips is going into a pretty little bowl in our bathroom.

Debbra Mikaelsen, Disliker of Tea