A year ago on New Year's Eve, the One and Only Son came to stay for New Year's Eve. Just like this year. My blog diary records that in the course of the evening, he managed to puncture the plastic carton inside a red wine box AND broke my second favourite wine glass. The kitchen looked like a scene from Halloween after he had volunteered to attempt to squeeze the last glass of wine out of the wine box, so he could demonstrate its recycled use as a whoopee cushion.

At the time, I assumed that his actions and their messy consequences were the result of either (a) an inherited clumsiness from his father or (b) the result of having been overcome with irritation as a consequence of trying (and failing) to teach me how to play poker.

One year later, I am thinking Conspiracy Theory. Or Ellie-Noia.

For this morning, less than a day after the son's departure and less than 36 hours after New Year's Eve, the husband manages to break my favourite wine glass. My precious. My Dartington-Crystal-Seconds-(or Thirds)-Bin-Goblet that I got (courtesy of my dad) in the family "Lucky-Dip-Christmas-Present-Providing-It-Costs-A-Fiver-Or-Less' several family Christmasses ago.

Co-incidence? Or Conspiracy? Or Genetic Clumsiness?

Whatever. I'm not resolving to give up wine in 2009, just as I didn't in 2008.

And to prove it, I have found another glass.

Hark! Is that the sound of a kitchen cupboard door being slammed in a fruitless search for the 'Guinness' glass?

What? Me?

Coincidence, surely.