I opened my cupboard the other day when I was making a cuppa. I was down to my bottom 10 mugs. I ran my pointer along them, trying to choose one.

But instead of selecting a cup, a feeling of unease settled over me. Involuntarily, I started recounting each of my mismatching mugs’ tales. And a confronting realisation came to me: I have a cupboard full of trauma mugs.

Each mismatched mug tells a story.Credit:

I’ve always collected mugs. Some people like to have a matchy-matchy set, but I feel that mugs are to be obtained organically. My stoneware plates come in a perfect set and I gasp if someone lays an odd butter knife on the table. But mugs are different. One is gifted a mug, or comes across one that is awaiting adoption. A cupboard of mugs is a cupboard of stories.

I have china cups perfect for English Breakfast. I have bulky mugs reserved for Moccona. Small tea cups, the perfect size for a cup of quinoa. Some with birds and native flowers, others plain – turquoise or white. There’s even one that used to house a small pot plant, but was adopted by an old lover as a coffee........

© The Sydney Morning Herald