The Brown Kitty Cup
One of my earliest memories is drinking hot chocolate from my brown kitty cup. It wasn't a large cup, small handle, medium brown plastic with a white line drawing of a Persian (or some cutesy-looking fluffy moggy) on both sides. I loved this cup. I'm right-handed so I always held it with my right hand. As such, one side of the cup got badly scratched thanks to my teething habit of scraping at the top of the cup with my lower row of gnashers. This inevitably wore away one of the images of the cat.

Fast forward a few years, I have stopped using the kitty cup (all growed-up and using smashable ceramics!) but I knew it was stored away in a kitchen cupboard, as I had informed my Mother solemnly that it was not to be thrown away (the start of my hoarding tendencies, much?) as I really liked my cup.

Some time after, a jumble sale is being held in a town not far from the village where we lived and my mother was having a sort-out of stuff to flog in the name of charidee. One such item she chanced upon was (yup, you guessed it) my brown kitty cup. Mother duly asked me if I still wanted the cup and I answered in the affirmative. I had a deep affinity towards this cup and the grooves I had worn into it with my brand spanking new teeth.

A few days later, I find myself being hauled into a church hall in the town for the jumble sale. Giving my Mother my best "I'll be good and behave and not touch and not run off" look she allowed me to wander amongst the assembled trestle tables and look at all the sorts of utter shite people were selling (a thought has just occurred to me: a jumble sale is really like eBay but tangible...).

I had completed a lap of the hall and was on the way back to my beloved Mother when I stopped at a table laden with little ornaments. To my mind, an array of little ornaments is always worth a second glance, just to make sure none of the assembled objets d'art were worth begging my Mother for some extra pennies. Nothing did. So back to my Mother’s stall I skipped.

Physics dictated I approached the stall from the front. Something caught my eye amongst all the tat recently evicted from my home. My brain starts talking to me.

“What's that, Sarah?”
“What? What?! Is it sparkling? Perhaps something infinitely childish?”
“Stop gibbering, Sarah, and pay attention.”
“Sorry.”
“Look carefully. That cup looks familiar.”
“Hmm. You’re right, Brain. It looks awfully familiar.”
“You really ought to take a closer look.”
“I will!”

So I made a mad dash to the table, covering the remaining distance like Amy Winehouse towards a freshly-warmed syringe of heroin.

I stopped.

I stared.

I might have even whimpered.

My brown kitty cup sat there, on the table, sticky label informing the assembled masses just how small a price my Mother placed on my treasured cup. I reacted with gazelle-like reflexes. I snatched that cup down and marched straight round the other side of the table and confronted my heinous parent.

“Mother, what’s this?”
“It’s your cup. You said you didn’t want it so I’m selling it.”

I splutter.

“I never said any such thing!”
“Sarah, if you had wanted to keep the cup, why would I be selling it.?”

I think to myself, “because you’re a money-grubbing, mean and heartless woman who I thought loved me because I am one of your treasured daughters.”

Obviously, this is a little too elaborate for a nine-year old girl to vocalise, so I actually answer, “I never, ever said I wanted to get rid of my cup!”

My Mother reacts with classic British parenting.

“Well it’s on sale now so if you want it back you’ll have to buy it.”

I stop. I think. Buy back my own cup? The one which I never wanted to get rid of? How ridiculously unfair! I say as much to my Mother, who then guilt trips me with the obvious fact that the charidee which the jumble sale is in aid of will be left out of pocket to the tune of twenty new pence.

Damn. But then my brain starts to demonstrate some of its cunning and underhandedness for which I am known as an adult.

“Okay Mum. Can I borrow 20p please? I have it in my moneybox at home and I will pay you back as soon as we return to the family homestead.” Or something similar. I knew I had the money at home.
“Yes, dear heart.” Cue Mother delving into her voluminous handbag for her purse of many partitions. “Here you go.” She hands me a bright, shining coin with our venerable Majesty’s head emblazoned on one side.
“Many and sincere thanks, Mother dearest.”

I hand the coin back to her. She looks at me a little blankly. I stuff my brown kitty cup into my Mother’s voluminous handbag.

“Please do not sell that cup. I really am quite attached to it. I don’t want to have to buy it back again.”

Here my memory fades, but I like to think my Mother stood there, jaw agape at her youngest daughter’s keen intelligence and utterly lost for words.

I sit here now, knowing exactly where my brown kitty cup is. It’s next to me as I got it out of a drawer where it has been kept safe for many years, away from the capitalist claws of my Mother. It’s only seen the light of day now so I could describe it to you, dear reader. Even twenty-odd years later I take great pleasure in reminding my Mother of this event every so often. It’s only fair, after the emotional distress and monetary loss I suffered.

Length? Well, the teething grooves are not much to write home about but the cup stands over a mighty 3 inches!
(Sahara Desert http://www.twitter.com/thesaharadesert for swears, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 13:38, 8 replies)

You...
didn't actually give the 20p to her when you got home did you?
(dchurch bah, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 13:46, closed)

Renumeration
Again, my memory fails but I'll say yes. It gives me an air of honesty.
(Sahara Desert http://www.twitter.com/thesaharadesert for swears, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 14:01, closed)

Entertaining and relevant story...
and you didn't have to resort to shit-arse puns like I did.

*click*

EDIT: or star wars...or 2000AD...or the other wank
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Tue 19 Aug 2008, 14:42, closed)

What a lovely story
I'm glad the kitty cup is still in your care.

*clicky*
( Mrs Entity is in hiding., Tue 19 Aug 2008, 15:06, closed)

A story such as that...
...deserves pictures of the kitty cup, to flesh out our imaginings. Post! Pictures!
(Musuko, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 18:31, closed)

My brown kitty cup

(Sahara Desert http://www.twitter.com/thesaharadesert for swears, Tue 19 Aug 2008, 18:53, closed)

Seeing that pic...
Has reminded me I had a cup like that - as did my little sister.

I'm off to mum's tonight to grab pics of them...

Hmm...maybe not tonight - I'm off to Wembley :)
( snee held his breath since, Wed 20 Aug 2008, 13:36, closed)

This story
is soppy and sentimental, and very well written.

Thankyou!
( Noeli overtheshoulderboulderholderthingstraplatchboobs, Thu 21 Aug 2008, 10:32, closed)