The Fine Bone China mug, pictured above, makes me smile when I reach into the cupboard in my son's new home (a charming post-war, with a large backyard just begging to be brought back to order, and apparently well-loved by the local deer -- we hosted two yesterday afternoon). I bought two of these for him almost fifteen years ago. His sisters had all moved out of the nest, and his dad was working in another city during the week, so he and I had what I remember as some very special times. I would generally bring him a cup of tea to wake him for school in the morning -- and he could cajole me into making his favourite breakfast sandwich a bit later -- but he'd also often return the favour if he was up first (generally, I think, with a conviction that if he brought me the tea, I'd be awake to make his breakfast).
As I said, the mug is one of a pair. One was unofficially assigned to his buddy A., who stayed over on our little island fairly often. It used to amuse me to see these two young men sitting at the table with their botanic-design, Fine Bone China mugs in the morning, tea grannies the both of them.
And it charms me no end to be in his kitchen now, to spoon out the loose tea that he's bought specially for our visit, a smoky variety because he knows we like that, to brew up a satisfying cuppa, pour it into a mug with a bit of history, and defiantly, slowly sip the last of its bright, aromatic heat as a high-pitched voice chatters away to her Granddad in another room.
But even a stubborn Nana has to admit defeat eventually. Bottoms-up, and the mug is empty. Someone and her Bunny have come in to tell me a story. You and I can chat soon, okay?