drama of the tea cosy

Perhaps not so much drama as saga. During a regular visit to an elderly housebound relative I noticed her tea cosy had fallen apart. Not surprisingly, as this was something she'd knitted about seventy years ago. This item, perhaps, should be singled out for service par excellence, effort beyond the call of duty, having survived intact for seven decades. I decided to replace it, thinking it would be a simple matter of going into a suitably-stocked shop and buying one. Far from it. Nowadays, tea cosies are more sophisticated creatures, tending to be made from padded fabrics with attractive patterns. These, I reckoned, would be too cumbersome for someone with limited hand movements.





Someone recommended charity shops so I trawled round these one morning. The only thing I came across was a jaded green affair which would fit a large teapot. Not the 1-2 cup size my relative has.











So I then went online, thinking this had to be more productive. I came across a range of tea cosies, some made from fabric, others from wool, in the shape of sheep, hens, vases of flowers, you name it. Mostly they were for medium or large size teapots.


























I've never thought of myself as someone who enjoys auctions. Yet a few years ago I found myself bidding online for a Per Una dress, eagerly checking out the situation to see what the latest bids were. Two days later, the dress was mine. The fact that when it arrived it didn't look so attractive as it had in the photo and the fact that I haven't actually worn it yet - perhaps this summer - seem unaccountably irrelevant. The process was fun.








And so yesterday, when I found on Ebay a knitted two-tone blue teacosy with a pretty pattern, with a starting bid of £2.50, the gambler in me surfaced and recklessly I committed to £2.65 with a maximum bid of £4.00. The closing time for bids was three hours later. In the interim, I got on with some writing, now and then checking the bid status, each time coming across the same message, informing me I was the highest bidder. Ten minutes after the closing time, I checked the website, to find that the auction had closed. And then, to my surprise I received an email telling me I hadn't been successful. Someone in Paris had offered a last minute bid of £4.20. Tactical or what? It's ridiculous, I know, but I was so disappointed.


My metaphorical feathers ruffled, fleetingly I considered knitting a tea cosy, but the tea would definitely be cold by the time it was finished. I then went online again looking for another knitted teacosy for a small teapot. Shortly after - and this story of tension and suspense is rapidly drawing to a close - I found a pink teacosy which looked quite nice. After that I ran into problems over the payment system, not sure if it was possible to pay with an out of date Paypal account. In my usual computer-inept way I returned to the page offering the teacosies for sale and inadvertently ordered another one. And then another. Unbelievable, I know. In feeble defence, I confess that I was partly thrown by the communication language which was French as my first and only other experience of online bidding had been conducted in France.

With such a system, the buyer is apparently legally obliged to pay for the goods after agreeing to buy them. I was adamant, nevertheless. I did not want three pink teacosies for a small teapot. So I contacted the seller by email, explaining my mistake, apologising, and asking me if he/she could help. Shortly after, I received an email from someone called Nettie, who addressed me as 'darling' and was charmingly, insanely sweet.

Today I have posted off a cheque to said Nettie, thanking her for her understanding. Perhaps in a week's time, I will have received a knitted pink teacosy suitable for a 1-2 cup teapot. Perhaps I am not the sort of person who should participate in online auctions. Imagine if I'd been ordering an elephant...


Wearily yours


Jane