Folks, last week some drunken idiot smashed my favourite drinking mug.
Of course, Long Suffering Wife calmly pointed out that I was the only person in the room at the time and quite how this was supposed to help is beyond me?
It was a pretty unique mug too. Crafted in China, only several million were ever made and if ebay is any guide, just a handful exist now.
Now, while this is hardly earth-shattering news for anyone else, that two buck, glass, cup meant quite a lot to me. For nearly 22 years I’d used it to consume Bundaberg’s finest product, or occasionally a chilled port or two. Now, I’m chewing through valuable drinking time finding its’ replacement.
Still, my search has given me a lot of time to think, without alcohol clouding my brain or making me feel superior, fitter, wittier or way more charming than I actually am.
We humans really do get attached to the silliest things don’t we?
Apart from my family, who are legally bound to tolerate me, I’ve got a few other trinkets which mean a lot to me personally but are practically worthless to anyone else.
A six-inch steel pocket rule I got on the first day of my apprenticeship, two pocket knives, birthday cards, some old books, letters and a handful of broken sea shells. The value of my priceless collection on the open market is anyone’s guess, but after watching a couple of episodes of Antique Roadshow I’d estimate the lot would fetch around ten, maybe twenty dollars from the right buyer.
Of course, I realise that one day my precious gewgaws will wind up as landfill or stashed away in someone else’s box of memories to be fondled occasionally before being tucked away again.
Still, wherever it all ends up, my little drinking mug won’t be in the collection now. But, with a bit of luck, and a lot of hope, I should have another 22 years of alcohol sipping ahead of me, so it’s time to break in a new mug.
A wooden one this time I think.