There is a sad, sad sight in our house, on any given evening you are likely to find forlorn, discarded mugs dotted around. Broken promises of a few minutes of peace on the sofa, now unloved and undrinkable.
There’s the cuppa my husband managed to make for me in the morning, delivered to our bedroom just in time to go cold while I chase a partially clad three year old along the landing, trying to convince her that she can’t go to the dentists in only last nights pull ups and a tutu.
There’s the brew made more in hope than expectation while trying to eat my breakfast, make my work packed lunch and provide for E’s four course breakfast demands. A mug destined to be, at best, half drunk, before nursery and the first capital connect train timetable demands I abandon it on the kitchen board.
Then there’s the cups boiled up in desperation, with the intention of abandoning good parenting pretences and just sticking E in front of Cbeebies for ten minutes. Yet even these are doomed to be unfinished, victims of a prolonged toddler toilet trip or the sudden need to clear up whatever unholy mess has been created today.
So here’s to you my once steaming friends, I am sorry (really I am) that your purpose was never fulfilled, but your existence was not for nothing. In your warm, fresh moments you were a small brown beacon of hope, no British crisis, be it war or a really messy kitchen, has ever been endured without you, and one day, one fine day, I’ll just stick on Toy Story for an hour and you will be mine.
All together now, “oooh, that’s better”