OH HE MUST DIE!

I never understood why my grandmothers and various aunts all felt the need to have a set of crockery to be used only for "best." These dinner sets would be kept in locked cupboards and treated like the crown jewels. I often expected to see a little goblin creature crouched outside hissing "my preciouussss." They would never leave the cupboard except for the most extreme of special occasions and then they were treated like glass vials full of nitroglycerine. It never made sense to me to own something you never ever used.

Then I moved in with Beloved. Beloved's daily toll on the dishes when we first moved in together was staggering. Acquiring a dish washer has only reduced the carnage - but a week rarely goes by without a plate or cup or glass being turned into an impromptu fragmentation grenade on the kitchen tiles. It vexes, it does. I have absolutely nothing that matches, just odd plates and cups everywhere (and yes, the gayness dth indeed runneth over, we have a full scale mincing alert with severe risk of flouncing. The emergency services have been notified in case I explode into a shower of sparkly rainbows. I don't care, I want my matching plates!)

So I ordered a set for best (*shame*) to be protected at all cost from Beloved's ravaging. They are pretty, faintly oriental and please me muchly. And they arrived today.

Me: I love them
Beloved: They are nice
Me: DO NOT TOUCH THEM!
Beloved: I was just looking at the plate.
Me: Put that down!
Beloved: But look, they're square! *looks on bottom* who makes square pla- *drop*
Plate: *shatters*
Beloved: Ooops...

Where's mah axe? I got me some killin' to do