All Aboard The London Bus

I’m suspicious of people who don’t have a favorite mug, or who don’t choose their mug carefully to ensure the mug suits their in-the-moment needs. I’m told there are people who live this way, who don’t have a preference for the shape of the handle, who give no thought to the specific mug curvature that best nestles into their hand, who have never considered whether they prefer a delicate or chunky mug lip, who, when presented with different colors don’t consider the question ‘but what color do I feel a connection with in this moment?’ Smooth or textured, plain or patterned, tall & fluted or short & round. Glass mugs (nope), hand-shaped-pottery mugs, novelty theme mugs, funny mugs, pretty mugs, matching mugs, deliberately mis-matched mugs. The variables are endless. And important.

There is a mug I like to use when I write (it’s actually more of a teacup), but only when I’m writing particular things (today I am sitting in bleachers at a swim meet - I did not bring a mug - today a stainless steel Yeti is meeting my needs). There is a mug I choose when I am feeling sassy. There is a mug that brings me comfort, and some mugs that I never ever use because they are other people’s special mugs and how dare I presume to take that from them? Sometimes as I look back through old photos I see mugs that I now think were ‘part of me’ in earlier times. When Baby #3 turned out to be Boy #3 I promptly bought pink polka dot mugs. I have never been drawn to girly pink things, but suddenly balance could be brought to my home in such a simple and poignant way. The memory of those pink polka dot mugs, although long gone, still stirs in me a nostalgia - I can hear crates of Lego being tipped over the bedroom floor, and I see small boys hanging upside down on sofas in Spiderman costumes, I see one small boy in particular wearing just underpants and attempting to climb a glass door; there are acorns in the washing machine, and a laundry pile that reaches to the sky, and peas stuck up noses, and bathtime and storytime, and half eaten oranges hidden behind sofas, and scissors hidden under pillows (anyone who ever met my boys for more than 3 minutes will be able to swiftly determine the culprit), a rock that was painted and named Scrabbles the Pet Rat, loudly sung invented songs with the lyrics “I am the law” on repeat (same boy as the scissors), and crayon on freshly painted walls. The polka dot mug represents a moment in time. It was about so much more than just coffee. (Although it was also very much about coffee - let’s not diminish the role of a true addiction).

I’ve had cause this week to reflect on my relationships with the mugs that have come and gone from my life, and I’ve come to see that the most meaningful bonds sneak up on me. A London Icons (big ben, black taxi, phone box) mug was gifted to me immediately before moving to the States. In the first few weeks of living in this new land it became my daily go-to. It was new and shiny, it felt like a tongue-in cheek assertion of my inherent Britishness (I was never homesick, but my goodness there were relentless, daily out-of-my-depth and feeling-nothing-but-’other’ moments, and somehow the picture of a double decker bus was grounding). We’re coming up on 8 years. And in those 8 years there has never been a time when I have been okay on the inside with someone else using my mug. I have never been okay on the inside if that mug is not readily available to me each morning. I will dig it out from the bottom of a sink full of dirty dishes. I will open a running dishwasher to retrieve it. The day just doesn’t quite start right otherwise. For some time now, I have held that mug wondering if it might stay with me forever, or when and how the end might come.

Little did I know that its demise would come at the hands of the one who loved it most. Me. All of a sudden, while the mug was doing what it did best - sitting innocently on the bathroom countertop holding that morning cup of coffee while I got ready for my day - when disaster struck. I stabbed myself in the eye with an eyeliner pencil and in my self-inflicted partially-blinded semi-frantic state I reached for a towel a bit too erratically, heard a clatter, and with my still-good eye I saw my cup on its side and coffee spreading across the white stone top and running down the cabinet door and pooling on the floor behind the bin. I rescued the cup, mopped up the spill, muttered various words under my breath, and with the injured eye clamped shut I focused on solving the most pressing problem - I needed a refill. Back in the bathroom, eye rinsed and pain-free, I picked up a tube of mascara and immediately jabbed the wand into the previously unhurt eye. Anyone who has experienced a self-inflicted mascara mishap will know that the immediate reaction is to squeeze both eyes shut as tightly as possible which has the knock on effect of pushing the freshly painted lashes against the creased skin, resulting in a spider web effect around both eyes. This is not an acceptable way to leave the house, neither is it quick or easy to clean up, nor is it an okay reason to be late for work or getting kids to school. It is also hard to handle these things appropriately at 6.45am. It was proving itself to be a tricky morning.

However, I am a grown up, and so I fixed my eyes, put the coffee-sodden towel in the laundry basket, and picked up the mascara stained tissues scattered around the sink. As I reached to drop them into the trash can, my sleeve caught a can of hairspray, knocking it over and toppling the coffee once again. At least I could see this time and could conduct a quicker clean up. I uprighted the fallen things, wiped the drippy things, said more under-my-breath things, then headed into my day wondering if things after 7am would seem a little calmer.

It turns out that white towels are hard to get truly clean after they have had a full day for the stain to sit and set. And it turns out that an 8 year old ceramic cup might withstand one clash with granite, but it doesn’t do so well with two. I remind myself that it is just a cup. My British identity is not chipped just because ceramic has proven itself to be fragile. I remind myself that I never really rode on double decker buses anyway. And I’m not really sure what was so British about the horse (although even as I write that I’m questioning myself - a legitimate highlight of King Charles’s recent coronation was the persistently naughty horse adamantly walking sideways and trying to throw his rider throughout the parade - actually one of most British things I ever saw). I can be true to my cultural identity and have a valid sense of self without starting each day thinking about Big Ben. However, I will miss that cup. It is symbolic of the biggest change that ever happened to us, the most significant decision we ever made, the greatest cultural juxtaposition I will ever know. It has lived with me in 3 houses, seen my little boys grow into 6’3 giants, survived covid and cancer, been my 6am friend through it all. Maybe its work is done. Maybe it’s time for a new cup, for what comes next. I’m probably never going to buy more polka dots. I can’t replicate that time. Can’t go back for a re-do of when we had babies. And I can’t do that with this cup either. In fact I will go so far as to assert I may never own another mug that has a picture of a horse. Rather I will install both the polka dot mug and the London mug in the Emma Langford 6am Coffee Mug Hall of Fame. Symbolic legends, shapers of our family.

And also, I now need to go and buy a new mug. The other 34 perfectly serviceable cups I have sitting in a cupboard just don’t connect with me on an emotional level. I’m off to shop all in the name of my mental health.