Now, this is strange, but true, and true and sad… I own a tea-pot. Or, rather, I ownED a teapot. I’ve had it almost ten years – a bargain $5 from Melbourne’s Salvation Army store. There have been many cups of tea, drunk over many late nights, early mornings, exhausting afternoons, with many kinds of company and solitude taken from that tea. A friend once commented that the pot made him cry – as he often accompanied our cups of tea with forthcomings of woe. And now, it is broken – a renegade pot of marmite fell from the cupboard and broke it. I now have real justification for my absolute dislike of that batteryacidlike substance. And, to make it worse, it was my new housemate who was the unfortunate witness-bearer to the whole snafu, so she feels bad, I feel bad, I feel stupid (honestly, it’s just a bloody teapot) – I kind of wish I’d broken it myself. Anyway… good memories. Time to buy a new one. The ending of the old, the possibility of the new.