I share my pokey little flat with two teapots, a mamma and bubba, that clang and clink, moving around me. A nasty version of the castle kitchen in Beauty and the Beast.
As I squat down to polish the mamma’s silver, her bubba jabs me with her spout and stamps her little feet. Then mamma’s vapour burns my skin.
Instead of brewing soothing tea like their compatriots, they brood and demand constant attention. Mamma can only be pacified with ten-cent coins, while bubba, at least for now, is content with five-cent pieces.
Some people have to constantly wash their hands or check under their bed three times. I have to drop coins in teapots for a moment’s peace. A precious clarity.
When the clinking and clanging starts up again I have to riffle through my pockets and turn over the couch cushions for spare change.
Recently the toaster started making eyes at me.
And, now, the kettle whistles show tunes.
Soon I’ll be pushed into smaller and smaller living quarters, forced to live on pizza and Chinese takeaway.