Chipped Mug

We all have our little things, don’t we? One of my little things is my constant use of a chipped mug for my tea.

(I can see you now, online-reader, shuddering and flicking away. You could be reading the oddly divisive reviews of the new Alien movie or even just checking the latest sad news from around the globe. Why stay to read this microcosmic rubbish? Why indeed. See you next time maybe.)

Still here? Okay, let’s do this.

I drink from a chipped mug, and I am quite interested in why I continue to do that and what impulse drives me to do that. But, before we think about all that, let’s do a little more on the minutia of this chipped mug thing.

(Some more of you off? I quite understand. See ya!)

We have nice mugs. Denby, classic blue colour. The tea tastes good out of them. Well, we think so anyway. It is Barry’s Tea so that probably helps. A couple of these mugs have got chipped over the years. It happens. There are plenty of unchipped ones but the chipped ones are still too nice to throw out.

I will always (always) have my tea from one of these chipped mugs. The other mugs will sit there in the cupboard, pristine and willing, but I will pass over them. I will reach into the back and find one with a tiny chip out of the rim and then I will be happy.

But why? Why?

Let me say quite clearly that I don’t actually know why I persist in doing this. So don’t expect some insightful resolution and the end of this piece. (I know, it’s shaping up to be a real doozy, this week, isn’t it?) All I can do is explore and theorise. Explore and theorise…

Firstly, and rather obviously, I take a chipped mug because I will never give Trish a chipped mug. That’s a no-brainer. If there were only chipped mugs left on the cupboard shelf (it happens) then I would wash an unchipped one for Patricia. She is the star of this house, and she won’t ever sip from a chip while I’m here and retain my power to control the delph. So that’s an easy and accesible reason why I take a chipped mug. If there’s one chipped and one unchipped then the distribution is obvious and unarguable. Job done? Well, no, not even close.

Suppose I’m in the house by myself and I fancy a brew, and the cupboard is replete with recently laundered mug ware. And 80% of the mugs on offer and intact and unchipped. I, me, alone in my house, will work through the mugs and will find a chipped one and I will use that.

Why? That’s what we’re seeking, isn’t it? The reason why. Well, it’s what I’m seeking. You’ve all gone at this point and God bless you on your way. As for me, I’m going to poke at this conundrum a little longer. I’m going to propose three possible theories and see how they look when they are written down.

Theory A – I am not good enough for an unchipped mug.

There is probably something to this theory. I go through life with the occasional sense that every single person in the world is equal to me and that the vast majority of them are considerably better and more interesting than I am. It’s not a painful thought. It just seems to make sense. I’m okay, but I’m not all that great. My use of a chipped mug reflects that view. Before you start to feel sorry for me, there is another, compartmentalised, part of my brain in which I am the absolute fucking best thing since sliced bread. I told you I didn’t have any answers.

Theory B – I am punishing myself by the use of the chipped mug.

Although raised as a Catholic, and, to quote Michael Caine, I might well still help out if they were short-handed, I don’t really subscribe to the notion of confession as a realistic way to purge wrongdoing. Deep in my heart, I just think it’s a cop-out that you can do something really bad and then go and tell it to your priest and he will let you away with it. Nah. Deep in my heart, amends have to be made somewhere. Nothing is free. So maybe there’s a bit of that. I drink tea out of an inferior receptacle as penance for that time I double parked outside Penneys. It’s a theory; in fact, it’s Theory B.

Theory C – I just value damaged things.

I reckon there’s something in this one too. As a slightly damaged thing myself, I welcome broken things and even surround myself with them. (Trish is an exception, because she is quite perfect.) I never seem to be entirely comfortable with things that are pristine and new. I’m never totally settled among the enviable.

Perhaps this last one is the one that is closest to the truth. The more I think about it, the more I feel that I just like to celebrate and involve the slightly damaged things I encounter in my life. After all, we are all damaged goods to some extent. Life chips at us and roughens our surface. It cracks us all a little. 

We all have our little things, don't we? Sometimes it’s good to reflect on them and the whys and wherefores of how they are the way they are.

Then again, sometimes it’s nice to simply leave them alone and just have another cup of tea.

So cheers, big ears.