Guilty of a mug smashing

Woke up yesterday morning with a start (which is what mornings usually are). My mobile was blaring away, vibrating on the desk at the side of the bed, the familiar beat and twinkling background notes of ‘Once in a Lifetime’ interrupting my dream.
After a brief conversation with Ka and making sure her straighteners were off, for at least the fourth time this week, I stumbled into the shower in an effort to wake myself up. After drying and pulling on a shirt I stomped into the kitchen only to be faced with another of my own wonderful creations from the night before. Another leaning tower of dishes, left drying at the side of the sink. Ka hates me leaving the dishes drying overnight and the mighty piles of pots I balance precariously on top of one another. After a short huff I set to work and started prizing the pile of dishes, pots, mugs and cutlery apart from the intricately balanced structure they were leaning in. Unfortunately, even after my shower, I was obviously not fully awake.
An oven dish slipped.
A casserole dish toppled.
A plate fell forward.
A large glass and a mug at the side of the draining board, balanced on the edge of the sink, were hit.
I moved to rescue them but missed the escaping tumblers. They spun, fell and hit the laminate floor below, smashing into a hundred tiny glistening pieces around my bare feet. The mug broke in half and only the base of the glass remained intact, complete with a large triangular, jagged shard, pointed threateningly up at me. Rolling my eyes, I got the brush and pan out from under the sink. After what seemed like ages, sweeping the smooth laminate floor in my bare feet, dodging around the hundreds of glass pieces dotting the floor, I finally finished and put the pan away and started making a now rushed breakfast. As I moved around the kitchen, flicking switches, punching down toasters and pouring cereal, glass occasionally nipped at the soles of my feet.
I’d tried to tidy the floor of all the glass with the brush but there were still small shreds lurking over the smooth floor. You couldn’t see them, and only barely feel them if you ran your hands over the deck, but they continued to nip at my feet.
The situation seemed to express perfectly how I have been feeling mentally for at least the past few months. No matter how much you try and tidy things up, tidy away, there’s always something there to remind you, no matter how small or seemingly invisible.
It was the second glass I’d smashed in a week and the second mug in a month. Yesterday’s mug was my ‘Ring For Service’ mug, a mug I had received as a present from former work colleagues down in Solihull. Natalie and Hannah had bought me it as a joke, insinuating my glorified tea boy status at the time. At least I think that was the joke? I certainly don’t think they were alluding to any other rings…
In that job I carried out my role as glorified teaboy brilliantly, until the two girls were made ‘redundant’ and I became the company’s General Dogsbody. As it happened I also carried that role out rather brilliantly until I left in 2004 to come back up to Scotland.

The first smashed mug of the month was my Homer mug. One of my favourites which Ka had bought me on one of our first Christmases together. A picture of Homer Simpson adorned the mug’s side, his head x-rayed to see his brain split up into sections, which included, ‘Sleep’, ‘Doughnuts’, ‘Sex’, ‘TV’, ‘Sweet, sweet beer’ etc. along with the caption: “Genius at work”.
Since I am a genius (if only in my own mind) I’d taken the mug into work to use for my teabreaks. Unfortunately, using her Studio Supervisor perks, Andrea had been getting her hot water delivered to her desk to her from the kitchen boiler tap, and one day asked me to fetch her hot water. Andrea passed her mug to me making my own slip from my hand and crack off the floor. As the Homer mug lay there, in bits over the floor, I looked up at Andrea as she burst out laughing. It felt like that moment in ‘Back to the Future’ when Biff had George McFly’s hand up his back. George’s fist forming slowly, pulling back at his side to the tune of Biff’s laughing, gearing up for the expertly delivery sucker punch.
Thankfully, I let it pass.
Andrea continued to laugh and I sighed out heavily, giving an expert fake smile as I picked the mug shards up off the floor. I’ll never forgive Andrea for that.
The love of my life, Ka, has even been guilty of a mug smashing. A more ‘Karate Kid’ flavoured one. Mum and Dad bought Kenny and myself Star Wars mugs, many moons ago. One had Luke Skywalker on the side, the other Boba Fett. Needless to say I demanded the Boba Fett mug and enjoyed many a cup of tea from it, up until a few years back when Ka decided, after watching some telly, to swing her legs off the arm of the sofa and successfully kick my Boba Fett mug, which had been minding it’s own business on the coffee table, across the living room. Half a cup of tea and a mug handle suffered as a result. The handleless Boba Fett mug now holds my paint brushes. As a protest and a heavy hint for a replacement, I didn’t throw it out. I know how not throwing stuff out really annoys Ka, but, for some reason, she allows me to use it as a paintbrush holder (it would also be a great breadstick holder). It must be the guilt. She’s still not bought me a new one.
It’s only stuff at the end of the day though. Mugs, glasses. Whatever.
Why am I sitting writing about mugs? I’m not sure. Because I’m sad? Stupid? Possibly. It’s just the way this blog has flowed I suppose, like tea that’s not had enough brewing time.
The other morning I was asked what was wrong with my mug? Being only half awake at the time, I asked, “what one?”