I ran out of English tea bags this week. I suffered a moment of distress and trauma as I stared into the empty packet. It was Yorkshire tea, my local brew.

The sides of the packaging are covered in pictures of quaint rural cottages that run together to form a small village in the countryside. The houses have thatched roofs and reside at the end of a long driveway lined by a dry-stone wall. In the distance, tiny men dressed in white indulge in a game of cricket. They each occupy a spot on the village green, whiling away their Sunday afternoon in play. Behind them, the rolling green hills stretch out for miles, sprawling unashamedly like a sun bather.

There is, if you look closely, a steam train penetrating the blue sky with a line of vaporous chalk. If you look even closer, you can just about see into the windows of the village church. But you have to have a good eye.

I awoke again, remembering that I was still, immersed in a cardboard box. And remembering again that it was empty. For a moment, I had floated around a rural scene and forgotten all about feeding my tea leaf addiction. But sadly it returned to haunt me. There is such thing as teabags here – I am quite aware. But it’s simply not the same.

This means I am left pining for an accompaniment to my evening session with the radio. Unlike Americans, who notoriously live for the TV, we British have been brought up tuning into the BBC. Radio is still one of the most important mediums of communication and entertainment.

The world service has, for years, been more than just a news channel to listeners. It has been a lifeline for people who suffer oppression or imprisonment in their countries. It has helped them to feel a sense of communion with the rest of the world. Listening to a global transmission allows for a connection more real than the big screen. And, despite some people’s reservations, it is one of the best and most reliable news sources I know.

The Internet has a tendency to answer everything now, but that is forgetting the trust we have always placed in sources like the BBC. And, of course, there is something a little romantic about the radio, despite the fact that it’s all on our laptops now.

So, when I run out of tea bags, it’s not as simple as that. In each paper bag was a small taste of English tradition, a moment of indulgence in a few British pasttimes. The cardboard landscape I had earlier fallen into was encapsulated in each steaming cup. And now the well-spoken man on the radio is ever so slightly less comforting. Never mind. I suppose there’s always Starbucks.