STORM IN A COFFEE MUG

There was, after all, a terrible outcome to the almost catastrophic avalanche of crockery that occurred when I tried to pull a couple of clean plates out from the drainer to warm before serving up our evening meal the other night. There was the usual cursing and shouting as the ceramics all crashed back into the sink and a bout of rewashing became necessary for most of them, but generally, at first, like with many disasters, it seemed that no real harm had been done.

Life went on. The meal was eaten, and all seemed well with the world.

Like in many vessels, however, the damage was beneath the waterline, whilst up on the surface, all seemed well.

For the sad result of this minor catastrophe did not become apparent, unfortunately, until the following morning when I grabbed hold of my favourite coffee mug and poured the boiling water into it and onto the instant granules I had already spooned into it. I know that I should do more to make myself a “proper” coffee each morning, but, really, who has the time any more? I may very well have an assortment of coffee machines available to me, some of which are design classics and works of genius, but clicking on the kettle and pouring hot water into a mug is such a simple solution that minimises slightly the mountains of washing up that, we have already established, bring with them their own problems.

Why, I should ask, do coffee machines have so many parts that all need washing afterwards?

I spotted the chip on the rim of my mug just as my instant coffee started to seep through the crack that had opened up underneath it and pour out onto the counter top, and so, in the toaster, my toast started to char as I frantically mopped up the hot liquid with some kitchen paper that was, for once, quite handy.

Burnt toast and my favourite coffee mug broken. This was not looking like it was going to be a good morning.

It was my absolute first and favourite mug of choice, just the right weight and size, a solid companion through these past few years of loneliness, and I really am going to miss it. We’ve been through a lot of mornings together, and it made for a pretty sad moment when I realised that its useful life was over and I would have to seek out a new relationship with a new drinking vessel, and that this sorry little incident must inevitably lead to a sadder parting.

My late, lamented friend and partner

I know that, in the great scheme of things, the problems of one small coffee mug don’t add up to a handful of beans (“It’s the taste!”) in this crazy world, but it is these little sureties, those tiny routines and objects of comfort that help us to keep our lives in some kind of order, and, for a few days at least, I’m pretty sure that I’m going to have a vague sense that something is wrong, and I know it will be all down to that lost and broken mug.