Saturday, 17 January 2015

Smashing time

It's true that the spacial awareness of the menopausal woman (certainly in my case) is different to most beings. The most damage I do is to crockery and glassware, not really a problem as 99% of all our stuff hails from second hand shops etc, but there are a few times when breakages have been moments and even possibly hours of sadness depending on the item.
I have a very clear childhood memory of breaking a sacred plate of my mother's - I wasn't menopausal of course, but she probably was, and another great virtue (not) of this particular part of life is to become wildly overemotional, often about . . . very little. I can't remember the plate now, but I do recall the letter (carefully embellished with clumsy coloured pencil flowers) we found many years later which spoke of my distress at obviously causing great sorrow: 'sorry Mum that I brok your best plat'.
Yesterday I brok(e) - I can spell a little better now - the third of our rather fine butter dishes. The first was a hand made one, the second a super 70s orange and blue thing and the third . . . sob . . . a black glass dish featuring a wolf or maybe a fox. I think it had come from a car boot sale years ago and seemed to have become a very permanent feature on the breakfast table.
I washed it up and then smashed it into the tap. I stood, not even able to swear colourfully, then quietly swept it up (after a photo record) and threw it away.
"What was that?" came Mark's voice with that certain resigned tone reserved for yet another item on it's way to landfill or glass recyclage in this case.
"The black wolf dish."
Silence.
Butter was served on a small oval plate at breakfast, not good as the cat was already eyeing the unprotected yellow substance. Good excuse to go round some junk shops I suppose . . .

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