When I was a younger we were poor. I’m poor now, but back then it was a different kind of poor. Now-a-days if you really wanted to you could save your pennies and fly off around the world. Back then you were lucky if you got to travel anywhere exotic, like Detroit where I live now. Exotic in the 1970s meant a trip to the sea-side. It wasn’t till the mid 1980s when people (OK my family) could afford to fly off to the Costa Brava for a week or two.
Trying not to sound like the Four Yorkshireman sketch from Monty Python here, we didn’t have much. My Father worked night shift as a printer and my Mother stayed at home as was the way of things in those days. So if we got to go on a holiday it was normally a day trip out to somewhere exciting like Wells-next-the-Sea or Oulton Broads. But looking back I had some great times and I wouldn’t change a thing about it.
Here started the coffee mug obsession. Each time we travelled of I would normally get a stick of rock (candy) and a memento of the trip. A coffee mug. I’d just found the wonderful coffee bean at the age of 8 and I’m sure it has a lot to do with my addiction to the drink. At one point in the mid 90s I was drinking 80 cups a week. Mix that with a few dozen bags of Quavers and you get one hell of a buzz!
Each new place we visited I would bring home a mug. I would look forward to getting a new one. Really at that age you would have thought my dreams would have been bigger but no, the thrill of a new coffee mug would get me up early and raring to go. Sad when you think about it! Over the years this progressed from places to things as well, novelty coffee mugs, what ever coffee mug the Ipswich Town club shop had that year.
Growing up though, I got lazy. Instead of going at getting the mugs myself, I would just tell my folks or any relative that was going anywhere at all, “Bring me back a mug.” My collecting got very half-hearted. When I moved into my own place my collection, instead of being looked at and admired. Started to get used and chipped and thrown out. Until by the time I bailed out of England I had none left.
You may think this is a sad tale, but no, it could be worse. I could be blogging about my sisters thimble collection.