You can call me anything you like but my name is Veronica

Vague crisis this afternoon.

People who know me know that there's few things I enjoy then coffee. I love coffee. We're talking love poems and flowers. I'd take coffee on a romantic getaway if I could afford it.

I'd dismissed class, packed up my books and was about to leave when that sinking feeling of forgetfulness swept over me. "Where's my coffee mug?" I asked myself. Which was rather silly. If I knew surely I would have told myself without needing to be asked.

It was no where to be found in the classroom. I went to my office, figuring that I must have left it in there on the break. No such luck. No mug.

My mind raced back to all the times that I was sure I had it: had it this morning in the lounge; had it in my office before class; had it in class, where I drank that final sip of coffee goodness. Okay, so on the break I know I went four different places: 1) office (which I'd already checked); 2) the library 3) faculty lounge 4) washroom.

Three seemed the obvious choice; after all, the lounge is where they have the coffee. If I was going to carry it anywhere it would be where I could get more coffee. So I went to the lounge. I looked on all the end tables and checked by the sink. No travel mug. I even looked through the cupboards on the off chance that one of the ambitious staff memebers washed it and and put in away. No mug.

Fine.

So I rush down to the library. I glance over at the terminal that I'd been on earlier and don't see it. I apporach the front counter and asked if it had been turned it. No mug.

So I rush up to the third floor washroom. I don't usually bring my mug to the washroom, but hey, I was getting desperate. I looked there, and... NO MUG.

Then my mind starts racing. My brain kicks into overdrive. "They've stolen my mug." All of sudden I envisioned this massive student plot to deprive me of my coffee - the little bastards! I figured it was some act of retribution for making them read Salman Rushdie or Sylvia Plath. I started trying to determine who the ring leaders of such a scheme would be and what my next step might be (more Sylvia Plath is really all I came up with).

Defeated, I returned to the faculty lounge where I had left my coat and bag. And there, on the floor by one of the armchairs, was my cup. And all was well with the world once again.