Yesterday I broke a vase. Simple little statement, or is it?
The vase in question was of purple glass, an antique, if anything over a hundred years old is an antique. It was one of the few things I had kept from the days when my late husband and I spent nearly every weekend either buying or selling antiques. Not greatly valuable, maybe worth about £70 or £80, but it was, in my view, beautiful.
Wednesday being one of my 'free' days I tend to clean, wash etc., in order to avoid exhaustion on the busier days, and for some reason I decided to wash all the glass on display in the house. (As opposed to the stuff fillings cupboards and cabinets). I reached for the vase - on a top shelf of course - knocked a more solid item over which hit the vase and sent it crashing to the ground.
Silence ! followed by a banshee wail of disbelief and then I burst into tears.
Having cried for a good ten minutes I got the dustpan and brush and dropped the late lamented beauty into a bag then into the bin, waiting for collection by the refuse collectors.
Next feeling shaken and wretched, I did what I never do, poured myself a large (very large) whisky and ginger. The first for about 12 months, and swigged it down in about two minutes.
About an hour later, when I could see straight, I looked at the gap where the vase had been and to my amazement, found myself heaving a sigh of relief that there was one less bit of clutter in the house to gather dust.
Every item we bought over a period of thirty years had been, for a time at least, the most beautiful thing we had ever seen. How then, has it all become just so much tat? Am I at last developing a sense of proportion so late in life, or perhaps at last what really matters is slowly filtering into my recently whisky-soaked brain.
So many emotions and all in one day, at least life is not too dull while I have the ability to demolish half the house in a moment, and then to laugh at my own antics.