Saucers. What are they? Most people would say they are small plates, and most people would be right. That is what they are. Small plates.
I was thinking about saucers the other day while enjoying a cup of coffee at the Old Stone Mill, where I was dining alone because no one in Pickax has the intellectual stamina to keep up with me. The coffee was adequate. The saucer beneath it was round. These are observations. You’re welcome.
Why do we need saucers? Has anyone ever truly asked this question? I have, and my moustache gave a significant twitch when I did, which told me I was onto something important. Koko, who has been pushing saucers off my kitchen counter for three weeks straight, clearly understood their deeper significance long before I did. He is, after all, a Siamese of extraordinary perception. Yum Yum, meanwhile, has been drinking water exclusively from a saucer she stole from my Staffordshire collection. I suspect she is making a statement about ceramics. Or hydration. Who can say?
Speaking of theft, someone broke into the Goodwinter Farmhouse last Tuesday and stole fourteen saucers from the historical society. This brings Pickax’s total felony count to forty-seven this year, which seems perfectly normal for a town of three thousand people. Chief Brodie has no suspects, though I notice the crimes always seem to cluster around my general vicinity. Coincidence? My moustache says nothing on this matter.
I considered purchasing replacement saucers for the historical society from the K Fund but decided instead to write them off as a “cultural preservation consulting expense,” which is perfectly legitimate and none of anyone’s business. Besides, I already spent four dollars on birdseed this month, and a squirrel ate most of it. Four dollars. Do people understand what that means?
Koko just knocked another saucer off the counter. It shattered into exactly nine pieces. Nine is a significant number. I don’t know why, but my moustache is trembling.
Saucers.
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