Love & Tea Bags on The District Line with Responsible Adults

Trolley Dolly

"So, you just switch it on, it heats, serve," Bradley said, pointing to the large silver tea urn set up on the folding table inside the white marquee overlooking the start of the race track.

"Seems simple enough," Mark replied, nodding.

"That's right. Fool proof," Bradley said. "Possibly even Mark proof. " He winked.

"They should use that as the ultimate test," Mark said, running a hand through his wavy dark hair billowing in the light morning breeze. The blasted stuff just always grows so fast. "If an appliance can withstand Mark Johnson, then it is indeed totally safe for the rest of the population. A Mark of approval, if you will."

"Ha ha, clever." Bradley said with an approved nod of his head. He unzipped his hoody jacket, revealing a tight fitting lycra running top underneath. He threw the jumper under the table on a sports bag stored under it along with the boxes of paper cups, stirrers, sugars and the little pots of horrid UHT milk, claiming it tastes just like the real white stuff. It doesn't.

"Um," Mark stuttered, pointing a concerned finger over at Bradley. "What is with the top?"

"I'm taking part, Mark," Bradley said. "Did I not mention that?"

"No," Mark replied, slapping his hand down. "No, you seem to have failed mentioning that part when you asked me to come help you serve tea to the spectators." Mark placed his hands on his hips. "By the word help there, one presumes that I would be a second pair of hands, and not the only one doing all the bloody work."

"You saying running 26 miles over mud and obstacles not work?" Bradley replied. "I'm doing this for the kids, mate."

"Oh really?" Mark replied. "And not for the prize of being crowned Deal Tough Mudder King and a trophy to display in Macy's Tea Shoppe window?"

"Well, that's certainly an added incentive," Bradley winked.

Mark sighed. He glanced around the tent and wondered why he decided to take Bradley up on his ask. He could be lying in bed right now, reading the paper, finding out about the race on the local news rather than here at stupid o'clock to hand out cups of bloody tea. There wasn't even a deck chair to sit on. How can he be expected to stand up for that long? How long does it actually take to run 26.2 miles? The London Marathon, that Mark makes a point to watch every year and make the harried decision to put his name down in the ballot after being motivated by the varied people in stupid costumes (which he then forgets to actually do it - they should make it a text ballot during the actual race, everyone would sign up then), goes on for days. Weeks, even. Didn't one person do it over a few months? Mark really didn't much fancy serving tea for that long. The urn wouldn't stay hot for one thing, and no one likes tepid tea. 

"Just hand out the free cups, give them all a card for Macy's, and then meet me at the mile 25 marker in...," Bradley took a quick look of his wrist watch, "three hours."

"You want me to cheer you along the last mile?" Mark asked, helping himself to a paper cup from below the table and pouring the hot water from the silver urn into it. Might as well check all was in working order.

"Yes, but there's sort of a requirement for the last mile, so, need your help there," Bradley said. He jumped up and down on the spot, twisting his hips, giving himself a brief warm up.

Mark slowly stirred the tea bag in his cup with the thin wooden stirrer, fishing it out and slapping it into the black bin liner attached to the end of the table. He hummed in suspicion. Cracking open one of the little milk pots, he added it to his cup and narrowed his eyes. All the while Bradley smirked at him. Something was up here. Something that, no doubt by the sheepish grin playing on the Aussie's insolent face, would be adding to Mark's ever growing list of 'do not recall' moments.

"I'm not liking the sound of this," Mark finally said.

Bradley chuckled.

***