I broke a plate the other day, actually two of them, and not just any old plate either. They were my mega expensive Royal Doulton side plates that belong to a set I purchased once upon a time when it was important to have porcelain in my 4 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, a “formal” lounge, a “family” room, a “sun” room/conservatory, a rumpus room, 6 car garage, 22+ kitchen appliances, 912 square meter section with a 295 square meter suburban house in the heights of Pakuranga (I bet you didn’t know there was any such place, did you? It is true, Pakuranga Heights is a legitimate area, maybe because it is up on a semi small hill – although how can one really differentiate between it and just Pakuranga. I’m certain the people who live in the heights of Pakuranga would vehemently argue of the substantial differences).
I thought at 24 years old all of that would make me happy - mass accumulation of stuff for the satisfaction of my external persona.
I paid for people to do the chores I didn’t want to do, I basked in naivety and frivolity, and yet life just seemed overwhelmingly complicated. So I thought I would be happier if we lived closer to the beach, and we sold up and purchased a house, a pool, and a 10 minute walk to the beach in Browns Bay. Along with that came more dissatisfaction, more Socrates and Ayn Rand literature to provide guidance in my quest to find the meaning of life.
Fast forward to a Dr Brown glass milk bottle being knocked off the apartment kitchen bench into an open drawer and shattering my plates with an almighty crash that caused me to jump and my heart to skip a beat. I looked down, and there it was, staring at me from the third drawer down.
Ironically my Royal Doulton filled drawer has been invaded by plastic and melamine, and oh how much joy this brings me.
