No glasses is worse than half empty

I used to get really grumpy at my parents about how we never had any matching glasses. There were admittedly some pairs of nice highballs and tumblers and a few dusty champagne glasses, but otherwise it was a jumble of random stuff. Collectible Disney glasses from McDonalds that my dad loved collecting for some reason. A squat gold rimmed glass he stole from the Captain's room when we were taking a tour of some old boat in Williamstown. Orange and brown floral patterned ones I suspect survived from their student kitchens in the 70s. But why didn't we have at least enough matching glasses so that when we had guests over, no one would have to be the odd one out with the smiling Hunchback of Notre Dame or the frosted cut glass Batman in action? It was worth refusing drinks just to avoid this embarrassment.

Of course, now I know better. We did have sets of glasses. Loads of them, over many years. They probably had cabinets full of good glassware, before they had me. From an early age my carelessly swung arms and sweeping gestures and my habit of walking right into things probably destroyed a hefty number, leaving lonely glasses in their wake. I realised this a moment ago as I was sweeping our bedroom and my broom handle caught a tall glass on a bedside table and nearly sent it to the floor had I not caught it by the rim with the tips of my fingers; a very rare save. I look in my own glass cupboard and see stray Ikea glasses - different styles from each different trip to the store - , Irish coffee mugs, Yoshimoto Nara design jar glasses that once held sake which I forced Josh to drink. So sorry parents. I guess I owe you a set or two.