In New York, I get into the office around 9 (although this is subject to extensive variation… dependent on the weather, my sleep, how I feel in the morning). It is sleepy and sedate, a far cry from the bustle of Manhattan a few floors below. Frankly, it is not an environment conducive to productivity. It is dimly lit, deliciously warm, extremely quiet.
I arrive and the first thing I do is make a cup of tea. Occassionally I still offer around to my deskmates — “would you like a cuppa?” — but the answer is always no. They have a Starbucks iced coffee on their desk, snow or shine, the badge of a New Yorker.
Tea has always been rather meaningful for me, particularly in the working day. As a doctor it was common to skip lunch, or water, or all 3 meals a day. A kind colleague or relative might press a steaming mug into my hands, sweetened and milky, and it would be a tangible relief. On days we could, someone would offer to make a round. They’d carry in teas and biscuits and we would drink together briefly, connected by this nectar, before drifting back to the work of the day.
The English hospital tea break reminds me of the Swedish concept of “Fika”. The Swedes, who are the 3rd happiest people of any country in the world, seem to be getting something right. The act of sitting together, of creating community, of the physical warmth of a mug in your hand becoming associated with communication and connection, is essential to happiness. In a digitised world, we are further apart than ever. And in a world where polarity of opinion becomes starker everyday, the ability to make small talk over a cup of tea, is a rarity, a small miracle.
Much of the job in Medicine involves trust. The team work together, and you must trust that the blood pressure was taken correctly and the fluid input is accurate. You must trust that someone else booked the MRI and that the bloods have been reviewed. It is simply impossible to do everything alone, and the team must work effectively, deliberately. And so it is in these moments, cup of tea in hand, we learn to trust one another. We build faith, we talk about the struggle to book the MRI (“the scanner is down today, did you hear?”) and the bloods (“potassium a little high — I’ll recheck in a few hours”) and then we get back to it, nourished by the tea and the company.
Steve Barclay, the British Health Secretary, said recently in the wake of strike plans, that doctors would have to work harder to justify pay restoration. But the tea break is the final moment of peace in the day, the only 10 minutes that can occassionally be carved out to connect with colleagues, to brainstorm ideas, to foster a culture of togetherness and support.
I look at my American colleagues as I walk back to my desk, careful not to spill the hot liquid. It is sad to walk past, to think on how little we know each other, how little trust there is. But there is less need for trust here, where the stakes are low in the office and I am not juggling peoples’ lives.
But when I am — well, that is when you need a tea break.
