Mug.0

If you walk down the street with a mug, people look at you like you're bloody crazy.

It upsets people, it makes them nervous. You can see them feverishly glancing round for a building site, a need to placate the uneasiness of the aforementioned mug  being out of the household parameters by placing you as a builder. It's ok to drink from mugs outside if you're repairing someone's roof or replumbing a kitchen.

But no, there is no building site - not even any light renovation or some gentle landscaping. The ensuing judgment is swift and damning. There's only one thing for it, you must be mad.

You see them whispering as you approach, mug in hand, taking an occasional furtive look in your direction. They stop as you pass lips compressed together, holding tight onto their handbags, eyes diverted, before resuming once again when you're at a safe distance:
"Did you see the size of the mug he had?"
"I know, I don't feel safe on the streets anymore."




Don't pretend you didn't have one of these

And I'm not just talking about any mug, I mean the big, ceramic, chipped, faded, got-free-with-an-easter-egg type of mug. It may be emblazoned with 'World's Best Dad' or 'Diamond Jubilee 1952-2012' or be one of those brown Smarties ones that every household seemed to have in the 90s. Something with a big handle and stir marks in the bottom, something that's been with you through three house moves, it's origins lost completely in the sands of time.

But the important thing is the confidence with which you carry it. Here you are, walking the neighbourhood sipping a brew, you're a Kenco flaneur, a Lipton lounger, a Tetley stroller. You don't care, you've got the streets at your feet and a cup of the good stuff in your hand. Never mind those who stare, who judge, who comment; they don't get it. They don't get that pushing the boundaries of domesticity can be liberating, exhilarating, intoxicating.

You should leave those haters in your coffee infused wake.

I sometimes wonder if there's a limit, a Mug.0 ,where the normalcy restrictions have been pushed too far. An invisible barrier at about 100 metres circumference from your house that marks the end of public mugging, indecent mugging, mugging with attitude. If you dare to venture far enough to cross it, the mug will be whisked out of your hand, go flying over your shoulder, zip down the road, careen straight through the sitting room window and smash straight into the splash-back above the sink.

Of course, you'd wear it as a badge of honour, this brewed Jackson Pollock, this caffeine-imbued abstract homage. It shows that you stared the mug-limits right in the face and laughed wildly. You've conquered Mount Olympus, you've knocked down the doors of Valhalla, slammed your  'I survived the monkeys of Longleat' mug down on the table and said:


They would really benefit from a mug or two

"That's right! I choose to drink my refreshing and invigorating hot drink out of a vessel whose handle I can actually get my fingers through and won't burn the shit of my hands even with the cardboard surround. And if you've got a problem with that, you've got a problem with me. Capiche?"
You defied any of them to complain. They didn't.

The Beverage Gods tremble at your feet.You have overcome.

So next time you fancy an alfresco tea, a coffee on the move, a hot chocolate in the park, throw off your convention-shackles, pick up your mug and damn well take it outside. Hell, maybe take a Hobnob or two along, really shake things up.

Go on, just try it.