A jin of tea leaves three or four kilos of wet spent leaf behind. Here is where it can go instead of the bin — each with the quantity, the frequency, and the part that goes wrong.
Dried spent leaf is full of tiny pores that trap odour molecules — the same mechanism activated charcoal uses.
Shoe-cupboard smell comes from what bacteria leave behind in sweat. The leaf takes up both the odour and the damp that feeds it.
A wardrobe is a closed box; damp that cannot escape turns musty. Dried leaf works on both the smell and the humidity.
A car is small and gets hot, so smells build fast. The leaf takes the odour up rather than covering it over.
Most of the smell comes from the liquid seeping out. Dry leaf soaks that up, and most of the odour goes with it.
Carpet fibres hold smells. Scattered leaf, left to sit and then vacuumed up, takes the odour out of the pile with it.
The tannins in tea bind to fat, and wet leaf has a rough surface. Both work at once.
The smell fish and raw meat leave in the grain does not rinse out. Tannins bind to the nitrogen compounds behind it.
Heating drives the leaf’s scented steam around the cavity, and the greasy smell on the walls wipes off more easily.
Tannin leaves a very thin film on wood; the grain reads deeper and more even afterwards.
Diluted tea leaves no sticky residue and lifts a little of the oil that feet bring in.
Green tea is pale and clear, so it dries without streaks. Finishing with newspaper leaves less lint than cloth.
Dried leaf wrapped in cloth is a gentler abrasive than wax. The sheen afterwards comes from the wood, not a coating over it.
The cold constricts the vessels and takes some of the swelling down. A tea bag sits closer than a cotton pad and does not drip.
Hot water draws out what polyphenols are left in the leaf. You come out smelling faintly of tea, which is subtler than fragrance.
Forty to forty-five degrees is the band that feels good without scalding. The leaf deals with foot odour at the same time.
Tea dyes a soft cream-to-brown that deepens with each dip. Cotton and linen take it; synthetics do not.
Dyed paper takes on an aged colour that suits wrapping, cards and labels.
Firmer than cotton, softer than buckwheat; it gives slowly under the head. The leaf rustles a little when you turn.
Small and portable. After a few days in a bag, whatever you take out carries a trace of tea.
Dried leaf smoulders rather than flames. It is the smoke that keeps mosquitoes off.
Spent leaf carries nitrogen and becomes fertiliser as it breaks down. Bury it; do not leave it on top.
A thin scatter, turned in. Less of it and slower than composting, but with no fermenting to wait for.
Brewed tea carries a trace of nutrients; diluted, it waters like water. Concentration is the whole point — neat, it is too acidic.
The fibre and nitrogen in spent leaf suit mycelium. This one needs equipment and control of temperature and humidity.
A single drinks shop produces spent leaf by the hundred kilos a day. Turning that into organic fertiliser or animal feed is an industry-scale operation.