To say our butter dish was stolen would be somewhat off the mark, and yet it seems the most appropriate way to put it. One day it was there, next day gone. Peculiar, don't you think? But the fatal flaw is revealed when we are forced to admit that we, namely myself and my current housemates, did not purchase this particular butter dish. It was bought by two of my former housemates; the long departed housemates of yesteryear.
They were both girls, both 20, and I know what you're thinking, but they were actually rather pleasant household companions. Both were frequenters of the fine art degree at the local university, and it was nice to have the occasional chunk of culture slip into the air, and hover while we all basked in its glow.
Now, on to the acquisition of the butter dish. It was a day of profoundly forgettable circumstances. No remarkable weather. No events worth mentioning. No interesting characters livening up the day, or plot. The girls simply went out to buy a butter dish, leaving my other housemate, male, 21, and myself looking after the house, so to speak.
We made affirming nods and grunts as the girls told of the intricacies plaguing the mission at hand. Overall objective: acquire butter dish. Requirements for overall objective: must be nice. Secondary objectives: keep eyes open for other appropriate buys, have a pleasant lunch - a filled baguette of sorts, and return home unscathed.
At the nearby cheapo shop, called Flip, where few items edged over the one pound mark, the two girls came across a suitable butter dish, sitting amongst various other less suitable butter dishes. The choice was clear: mock the dishes made to look like small animals, and the ones which looked too cheap or student-y, and go for the suitable one.
The suitable butter dish was not too big, not too small; an oblong plate in which a standard block of butter could sit comfortably, with an elongated cuboid lid of sorts which would be placed over the plate, to keep out intruders. It was a fashionable off-white which promised to fit in nicely with our rather new, rather fashionable, off-white themed kitchen. A small motif was embossed into the lid—a woven style circle with a feather inside. It cost £1.50 and the girls spent 75p each.
They returned late in the afternoon having accomplished their mission. The quest had taken them over perilous lands, fraught with danger. But nothing was too big a task for these mighty warrior women.
Once safely home we all rejoiced in the newfound ownership of the butter dish. We had some celebratory toast and spread the butter from that very dish. It spread well, and we all knew the girls had done good.
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But now, alas, the dish has gone. It is more than a year on since the dish was bought, and not a day had passed in which it hadn't been used. So now it has been taken, this asset will be sorely missed.
The girls both moved away at the end of June, unconsciously leaving the butter dish comfortably at home with us. We set about continuing to butter all things butterable, and obtaining that butter from the butter dish. It had become a piece of kitchen furniture in its own right, and no one really gave it a second thought.
So when one of the girls came to visit, four months later, we had no idea as to her dark intentions. Using the pretence of a friend's party on a Saturday night, she descended upon the town with promises of tea, chats and catch-ups the following day, post-party. This was all fine by us, and we welcomed her home. The following day, however, I was obliged to work, and was not around for her visit.
She arrived mid-afternoon. Hugs were exchanged, teas were brewed and consumed, chats were had and after an hour or so of pleasantries she was ready to go. As my current housemate and my ex-housemate passed thrgough the oh so famillier kitchen on their way to the front door, the ex's eyes darted suspiciously. Sure enough, the butter dish sat exactly where expected, as unaware as we were to the incoming threat.
It sat comfortably in between toaster and bread bin, a fresh brick of thick yellowness residing proudly within. It was mocking her, she thought. She must have it back. "Oh, yeah," she casually observed. "My butter dish."
My housemate didn't reply.
"I forgot about it," she continued. "I guess i'll take it now."
My housemate said nothing.
She coaxed the butter off the dish on to a nearby plate, it franticly gripped onto its home as she tipped it, but gravity won out in the end, and the butter lay beaten on an everyday dinner plate.
my housmate bit his lip.
I came home two hours later to hear the tragic story. After much consoling we decided to be men and move on. What right did we have, after all, to contest the custody of this butter dish? We hadn't even chipped in to pay for it.
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Looking back on this tremulous period of our lives, the emotions rise to a near bursting point. Thankfully, due to herioic efforts on the part of myself and my housemate, and support from two new housemates, one of whom bought a new butter dish, we survived. A pivotal moment had come which threatened to destroy the very foundations on which we lived, but that moment had also gone, and the foundations remained. At the end of the day, and indeed at the start of the day, no toast went unbuttered, no sandwich too dry.
