Sun 15th Feb 2009

Another day, another tragic turn of events. My mug got smashed. It was accidentally knocked off the draining board. I’m sad to see it go. It had been my main beverage container for almost a decade. In that time, we’ve greeted each other nearly every morning upon my waking, and for this reason it wasn’t just a mug - it was technically the closest thing I’ve ever had to a wife. Just think of the rivers of tea we must have seen together over the years. And now it is nothing more than memory.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if my drinking vessel at work hadn’t also met a similarly untimely death at the hands of clumsiness only yesterday. How cruel to have lost my two main drinking vessels of so many years, in just two successive days. Lord only knows what short-term effects this will have. The next time I fancy a warm beverage at home, I will reach into my cupboard and the mug will no longer be there. Initially, I expect this might cause confusion. But given such exraordinary circumstances means there will be no respite. To have the same thing happen at work as well, I fear that life will become an unfamiliar, even bewildering place.

I once met a man who told me that mugs are often unappreciated. They are not just something to hold larger amounts of tea, but actually trinkets which help forge our identity. As such, they are a part of us. Why else do we feel a mild, unspoken sense of anger and possessiveness whenever we walk into the office and someone else is drinking tea from the vessel we consider our own? Believe me, everyone feels it even if they don’t say it. Mugs are not just practical crockery, they have the power to be our own little statement. Whether a brickkie or lawyer, modes of expression are undeniably limited. You cannot go into your workplace dressed as you please. You can’t walk into an office wearing a t-shirt with a political slogan or the logo of your favourite band. Mugs are one of the last mediums we feel free to reveal our sense of individuality through. That’s what makes them so significant.

If there is any truth in the man's words, then maybe my breakages are some sort of sign that I should make a new start. Perhaps I am being told I should re-invent myself with a new identity, not just personally, but professionally too. It makes me wonder whether I have been living in a downward spiral, and this is literally the break from mundane normality I need to spur me into new actions. Am I in a rut? Who knows. But sitting at a computer, writing nearly 500 words about broken condiments is hardly evidence of the most fulfilling existence, is it?