The sad tale of Scuttle's butter dish......
For alll those who have heard the tale before, just skip.
Gather round me hearties while I tell a tale that will thrill the marrow of your bones and wobble the wax in your ears. Or something.
Shortly after leaving home at the age of 19, I purchased a butter dish. It went with the china set I was gradually purchasing - a pattern called Bristol Blue from BHS. I gradually bought various bowls, plates, serving dishes etc. and was (and am still) very fond of it. In fact, enjoyed my toast and marmalade this morning on one of the plates. Through a huge number of flat and house moves, the butter dish came with me. I've lived all over the UK, in a large number of addresses, much to the annoyance of friends with limited space in their address books. I eventually met DH while living in deepest Devon and we got married and set up home together, overlooking the beautiful landfill site where I worked, and still as a the proud owner of my lovely butter dish. The years rolled by, and we ended up back in my homeland in beautiful Wales. Now our happiness was completed by the addition of some adopted greyhounds. Cue entry of loveable woofs. We quickly learned the importance of the clean worktop.
Then, on a cold and stormy night, I decided to leave the little darlings alone in the house while I went out a-pleasuring with a colleague to listen to a popular beat combo by the name of Hayseed Dixie. While I was out listening to the joys of songs about drinking, shooting and F**ing (cos those are the only sings worth singing, according to HD [hwink]) I relaxed safe in the knowledge that the kitchen was clean and tidy and the butter dish had been placed on top of the microwave which was sitting on the kitchen worksurface.
Pause for dramatic emphasis. Little did I know that when I returned home I would re-enter the kitchen to a scene of utter devestation. A guilty greyhound. Half a pound of best organic butter gone. And, lying on the floor, smashed to smithereens, my beautiful butter dish. I got out the dustpan and brush and swept up the pieces but repair was out of the question - the hard floor tiles had smashed it completely. And of course by now the china range had long since been discontinued.
Eventually DH bought me a lovely, very cheerful Cath Kidston butter dish, which now lives on the kitchen windowsill, well out of the range of any marauding beast. But I still miss my lovely blue butter dish. Let the moral of this tale be - if you have a grund, keep your powder dry, your kitchen clear and your butter dish hoisted.