I’ve got this thing with mugs. I own a wild collection, none of them matching. So no “beautiful living” here, it is an eclectic mingle-mangle of colour and styles. But they have become constant companions over time and evoke memories of the donors or the occasions marking their entry into my cupboard. I am really heartbroken, whenever one of my beloved cups breaks. So I tend to be rather careful handling them.
Because this is so, I rarely just buy myself a new cup. But this one caught my attention. And since a few cups were broken or chipped recently – not my very own collection cups, mind you, but those for general use (meaning, the ones, sweetheart may also touch) – I bought it.
It has potential to be included in my “beloved mug” series for various reasons: it is pretty, it has the right size for my morning coffee and evening tea, I really like the flowers on it. The only thing pulling me back from putting it on that special shelf in my mind is the simple fact, I bought it for myself. Whereas the other file of mugs in the row of special mugs among my mugaddiction collection were gifted to me or acquired at special places or occasions. But hey, I am good enough to be accepted as a giver of mugs to myself, right?