I can't say that I've read all of the writings of P.G. Wodehouse

--he was, after all, in his day a successful and prolific writer of the libretti  of Broadway Musicals--and in plain terms, I would rather eat worms than listen to anybody's ghastly, vulgar, stupid, smart-ass musical comedy.  But, I'll bet, I've read every single one of Wodehouse's comic novels in which Lord Emsworth, or Bertie Wooster and his man Jeeves feature as protagonists, at least a dozen times each.  "Custom cannot stale, etc."  And strewn through them, sparkling like gems, are descriptions of the morning cuppa that only an Englishman could pen:

                Just right, as usual.  Not too hot, not too sweet, not too weak, not too strong, not too
                much  milk, and not a drop spilled in the saucer.

Which, with some personal modifications, is just how I like my morning Darjeeling (which I alternate with Assam).  And the glowing bien être that diffuses throughout my physical and mental being even while I am imbibing the elixir seems little short of miraculous--in its mild way, psychedelic.