Our fearless leader, to whom thanks for our existence is due: Pat Richardson, brain-mother of the brain-child that is The London Tea Room. We are told that not only did she invent tea, she also came up with the idea of drinking it. Also: she sells some very lovely things over here.

The Iron Cricket Bat to Pat’s Velvet Glove: Anna Myers, co-master-mind and spark-of-life. Her stamp can be found all over the tea room, from the music you hear to the vast and exotic selection of teas to the actual stamp she uses to stamp the labels on the jars of tea. Also, she is a buyer of furniture for this place. (photo courtesy of prettypoutygirls.com)

Manager Jackie James heads up the kitchen. Of her ability to make tasty sustenance it can be said: If Jackie built a gingerbread house, we guarantee you would just go right in and leave no trail of bread crumbs, even knowing what you know about the oft-heralded dangers that lie in going into gingerbread houses. It would be that worth it.

Jen used to be a tightrope walker in the Ringling Brothers Circus. Prior to that she tap danced in cabarets across Berlin. When she attempted to marry these two passions...you can probably imagine it didn't turn out too well. Now we're lucky enough to have her here while her bones heal.

Here at The London Tea Room, Justin Kinkel-Schuster makes heart-lifting Americanos. But here, he makes heart-breaking Americana. Don’t let that sweet face fool you. His rage is blinding and unpredictable. But still kind of sweet. 100% raw, unfiltered Kinkel-Schusterness.

We took in Amanda and rescued her from a life of crime. Just as well, since she wasn’t very good at it. This gun is plastic and the machine gun noise she makes with her mouth is not too brilliant. Her sparkling face means great customer service for you but for us, it means the added cost of all that sparkly face paint.

If Chelsea were dead, it would say "Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt" on her tombstone. But she's not dead, thank God, so she can avoid any legal action from the estate of Kurt Vonnegut. * She's working at The London Tea Room in order to pay her way through mad scientist school (for girls).

Peter James, call sign Spartan-117, unmasked and serving scones. He is the offspring of boss Jackie, so he has to do what his mum says both at home and at work. On a related note, he smokes seven packs of cigarettes a day. Oh, and a message to you fathers: lock up your daughters. This one's single and single-minded, a dangerous combination for a seventeen year old Halo junkie.

He doesn't actually work at The London Tea Room, but his spirit lives on here in the form of his favourite tea, Lapsang Souchong. It receives special notice here because it is the webmaster's favourite non-alcoholic beverage of all time (includes past lives, one of which being Winston Churchill). Seriously: it tastes like the smell of cigars, campfires and baseball mitts.

In-house webmaster/graphic designer. By 'in-house' let the reader know what is meant: Matt is kept in a basement somewhere in the city, fed Yorkie bars and Branston Pickle whilst being told to "just make it look pretty" and "get it on the interweb post-haste, chop-chop!"