[ Philip leans on his elbow and ponders the origin of that particular piece of knowledge. ]

That was, erm...

[ He reaches for a second cup, hoping a repeat of the mixture will jog his memory. That and his own serving might just include a little more than the recommended quantity of rum.

Philip's own tolerance started off as a good average and has now - after steady and habitual increase combined with a certain sentient disease - reached levels that are quite bordering the inhuman.

He stirs the beverage and takes a sip, the taste bringing back a few memories. ]

A small pub near Canterbury. I think they called it Sailor's Tea and, um... a friend persuaded them to hand over the recipe.

[ It seems so simple a fix now, but back then the discovery was quite awe-inspiring. ]