Butterfingers

This week brought back a flood of memories…of the not so good kind. As if on cue, one after another, my precious glassware, suddenly seemed to have a mind of their own – from tea cup to soup bowl to even steel mug! Looks like they have all mustered up courage to call me out for who I am – Ms. Butterfingers!

No, no, I have nothing in connection with that UK born American game, baseball, where a player with butterfingers is regarded with disdain.

Mine is more or less an in-born trait, butterfingers by birth, or a ‘manufacturing defect’ as some would like to term it. When I was but old enough to crawl and toddle my way from one room to another, my darling mother, years later, apprised me of the bracing, bodacious, baby that I was, one whose eyes gleamed with mischief as I tugged at her dinner-wagon runner bringing down with it a cascade of crashing crockery, now a sea of smithereens! And talk of the spanking poor Baby Blue received from her livid mother! Like I’ve always said, those were the days, when to spare the rod and spoil the child was a crime. Today, of course, it is the other way round. But let’s stick with the good old days for now, shall we!

Whenever mummy dearest recalled my babyhood days, she could not withhold herself from lamenting the loss of her most treasured chinaware at the hands of none other than her little daredevil, me! But, oh yes, that she loved me more than her crockery is a surety, since you see, I’m still here, telling my story!

My love for glassware grew along with me. When guests came home, I’d run to help mother pour out the cool-drinks in tall, dainty, glasses. How regal and elegant they looked sitting snugly on the tray, filled to the brim with Tonovin! With the visit done and the guests gone, I would invariably be tasked with washing these tall glasses. Agog with excitement at being given the honour of cleaning these fragile beauties, I would try to be as gentle and careful as possible, but being born with butterfingers (not my fault as you are now aware of) either one of the tumblers slips while I’m soaping them, or worse still, flies right out of my hands as I proceed to rinse and throw out the water, tumbler included – and mother dearest, who was nowhere in the vicinity, had the happy knack of appearing right beside me at the wrong moment – as if in time to witness the untimely demise of one of her prized possessions! And then…, you’ve guessed it! All hell broke loose.

Knowing my penchant for delicate glassware, my best friend and darling husband, indulged my passion, and yes, I am a proud owner of lovely serving ware.  I prided myself with looking after my ‘China’ with the utmost care all these years, up until this week, when my past pestilence seems to have caught up with me – Butterfingers!  Suddenly I see things slipping from my fingers.  Instead of striving to catch them as they fall, I freeze – like an ace fielder in cricket who let slip the ball – as I watch my delicate darling bowl or cup shatter and scatter on the floor! I now know how my darling mother felt back then! Heartbroken? Crestfallen?

Now, don’t just sit there smug, with a snickering expression on your face sweethearts; for, let’s face it, you too have been there… done that… so why don’t you simply salute my honesty as a sure sign of solidarity for yours truly!