The Cats’ Father had a beloved coffee cup. Had? Has. It is extant. It was doing its existing on the kitchen counter up to press time.

The handle of this great cup broke about a year ago and I, a proficient breaker of things myself, never met something for which I didn’t have the right glue. Soon, the cup was back in business and the cup-bearer was back to being over-caffeinated.

But then, as broken things are wont to do, it broke again. This time the handle was determined to show me it meant business. This was no clean snap. It mash up good.

I don’t give in to bullying crockery. Yes, I glued it back together. No, it cannot be used in a risk-free manner. Yes, the handle resembles a bad Jenga effort more than something you can hold on to. It is now a pen holder and is doing a fine job. Can’t have too many pen holders in this house.

All this palaver over one cup in a place of too many cups. You’re right to judge me when there are so many lonely, uncared-for cups waiting for us to use them.

But. But when that handle broke, the Cats’ Father looked more of a wreck than it did. Then I started to fret. And inevitably the dog got in on it and he looked worse than the pair of us. You cannot fathom the emotional depths of this dog.

Letting go is hard. And sometimes it’s only a coffee cup. Sometimes a coffee cup is more than just a coffee cup. Sometimes it’s a whole world of memories. It can be person, place and time. That’s some heavy lifting for one piece of ceramic. You know this. This is not about collecting, nor is it only about things that respond well to glue. We keep letters or cards long after they’ve faded and when the paper is falling apart. Some of us keep letters and cards that belonged to our parents even when we have scant idea of who they came from or to what they refer.

Letting go is breaking up after five months or 15 years. It’s finally realizing someone you’ve been obsessing about does not return even an iota of your affection. In fact, they think you’re stalking them.

But let go you must. For your sake and theirs.

It’s the terrible day you understand the meaning of forever. The morning after a funeral for someone very close, and it occurs to you – like brand-new information – that they really- truly are never coming back.

Letting go can be such a killing thing. It’s this killingness that was on my mind when I started to think about letting go. Because sometimes, maybe too many times, it’s an inability to let go that can lead to something soul-killing. Or other, more corporeal forms of killing.

Me, I’m a door-slammer – literally and figuratively. But it’s bizarrely twinned with my pining. So, let’s say a bad man done me wrong. In short order he’s out, banished, never again will his name be spoken. But I will then carry this wanting and missing for the next hundred years, silently or slightly hysterically.

But that’s between me and my friends. He’s dead to me.

I see the venom in both scenarios. For some, it is on the table in a vial, clearly labelled for all to see. For the likes