Some days 'staying put' might feel the same as Going Nowhere.
Make a cup of tea, and wait for that feeling to pass.

Indeed, Madame, your ladyship is very sparing of your tea; I protest the last I took was no more than water bewitched

He brewed his tea in a blue china pot, poured it into a chipped white cup with forget-me-nots on the handle, and dropped in a dollop of honey and cream. He sat by the window, cup in hand, watching the first snow fall. "I am," he sighed deeply, "contented as a clam. I am a most happy man.

What shall we do at our tea party?" Daddy asked. "Do we sing and read poems like you do at Grammy's?"

"We can just talk. I can tell you about what's been happening at school. You can tell me about your work or what you did when you were a little boy. You know. Things that matter.

Tea was the great arbiter of many things, and for Pastaddams, his morning cup meant the difference between expressing rational thought and succumbing to the ineptitude that occupied recesses of his dormant mind. Merely having the cup in his hand facilitated the flow of ideas, and upon tea, the great nourishment of the tailor’s life, rested all his claims to rational dependence.

We feel like it's tea time again. We want our property back.