The lot of the humble mug is not a happy one. Held lovingly between two hands one minute, languishing, cupboard-bound, the next.
I had a nasty cold this week. I did what any sensible person would do and resorted to the chemical embrace of some cold-cure capsules (because, clearly, some powder in a shiny two-coloured gel casing, costing four times as much, makes them far more effective than if they were just a tablet with the same ingredients).Mixed with hay fever tablets, the unexpectedly warm weather and a lack of sleep, this had two effects: A very slight reduction in the number of times I sniffed unpleasantly per minute, and a spaced-out sensation that caused my mind to wander.
Considering my mind strolls off like a stray cat on a night out at the best of times, that can be slightly alarming. This time, for no discernible reason, I found myself thinking about how many mugs I’d owned in my lifetime. It’s a story containing harrowing tales of neglect, unpleasant staining and being kept in the dark for years on end. Some of the mugs weren’t so good either.
There was the slightly rude one I had in my first ‘proper’ job (something to do with computers) at BT that survived longer than my time with the telecoms giant, and lived out a happy retirement despite a large chip and fractured handle, until deemed too scruffy to be allowed out.
There’s the “World’s greatest 30 year old” one with cute cartoon bears on, purchased for me by my nieces to coincide with that milestone nearly 20 years ago. Remarkably, after a lengthy period of inactivity, it came to work with me, got lost, and still surfaces in the kitchen there from time to time, as if to remind me of my life circa 1997.
Many have left this word following the untimely removal of their handle – the most recent being a Queen mug, that will now be waiting for the Hammer to Fall in a landfill site somewhere.
Despite regular clear-outs over the years, mugs appear to be prolific breeders. There are yet more in our kitchen cupboard that I only vaguely recognise and can’t remember where they came from, or the last time I used them. A set of 4 with owls on arrived last Christmas from family, and are roosting at the back, just in case their purchaser visits at some point.
Odd ones, part of a pair or set, now linger on without their carelessly broken brethren. They rub handles with the overly-big one that I can’t imagine ever using, which must know it’s days are numbered – much like the bone china pair with badgers on that were a gift, but so petite that an espresso would overflow.
If there’s a wormhole in our homes secretly consuming all the biros and keys, it has a friend silently spewing out coffee mugs at an alarming rate.
Fancy a brew? I think I’ve got a spare mug.
This post first appeared as my "Thank grumpy it's Friday" column, in the North West Evening Mail, on the 10th of June 2016, where it was re-titled by the paper as "I'm left feeling like right mug". Gosh... thanks.
The page 2 "In today's edition" column (where people get a chance to see the scary picture of me from over 4 years ago in a smaller format, so they can prepare themselves for the larger one at the top of the column) also has a different angle, with "Raising a glass to mugs", which I rather like.
Subtlety is key, and this was only visible from one angle, increasing it's chance of staying rude for an extended period. Good Scrabble points too.
(Non-alphabetical order CD tonight - spot of "The very best of the early years" of Status Quo.)
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