Look at my mug. Isn’t it a thing of beauty? No, I don’t mean my editor’s mug shot; I mean this bone china creation which comes courtesy of Cream Cornwall. It’s one of many products (aprons, candles etc), to feature specially commissioned illustrations reflecting Cornwall’s maritime history. It’s also so big that should the floods descend upon the aptly named High Water House, I could use it to bail out or, in desperate times, actually sail away in it.
Sales pitch over (other brands are, of course, available). Here at CT, we spend a lot of time making and drinking tea. It’s what gets us through production every month. As I write, my innards are sloshing with the stuff. Perhaps we should sponsor a plantation somewhere – Tregothnan is on our doorstep, after all.
I am proud of this mug, not least because it is a much classier affair than my usual number. Not that I wish to be ungrateful; my cutesy cup was bought by a previous colleague as it bore more than a passing resemblance to my cat. As said feline, name of Polly, passed away in January at the ripe old age of 18, that mug will always hold a place in my heart – which is more than can be said for the mould soldered into the bottom. However, on the plus side, I’ve developed an immunity over the past decade, and I could always guarantee that no one else would dare to half-inch my mug (an inevitability in office life), if only out of sheer disgust.
Not so, my Cream Cornwall receptacle. I’d hardly had it five minutes when it went AWOL. I turned out the kitchen cupboards; I thought I’d gone mad. Then, come home time, I had a quiet look around the office (which Cornwall, today shares with sister DC Media titles – West Briton, Cornish Guardian and the Cornishman), scrutinising each and every desk in turn. I found it, complete with milky coffee dregs (yuk), on the desk of a colleague who shall remain nameless. Clearly some mug envy going on there.
I can honestly say I have not felt so territorial about a mug since my teenage years (when, let’s face it, you feel territorial about most things). Oh, the red mist that would descend in the morning upon discovering that my mum had used my treasured Viking Radio FM mug to make tea or coffee and – horror of horrors – NOT WASHED UP. This was the source of numerous strops, which makes me wonder a) whether my mum just forgot every time she went to the cupboard, b) why she didn’t get rid of the evidence afterwards, and c) whether she did it for the sheer hell of winding me up.
Anyway, I have reclaimed my mug. While it isn’t quite chained to my desk, I do ensure I wash it up and put it back on my desk. Because it’s mine. OK? You can buy your own here: http://www.creamcornwall.co.uk
PS. The September issue hits the shelves tomorrow. Don’t miss it.