Maybe it was because I boasted about my Karl Marx mug that it decided to shatter. I opened my cupboard and as if it were the Berlin Wall, my beloved, new Karl Marx mug came tumbling to the floor. For some reason, everyone in my hall ran out into the courtyard, celebrating and crying tears of joy. I stood there, looking at the remnants, thinking, “Why not the Blackwells mug? Why not the cheap Sainsbury mug??”
It was meant to be, Mr. Gorbachev.
