The Not-Quite-Right Teapot

I'm going to write some plain old nonsense and, gosh darn it, I'm going to like it! (Feel free to jump in)
(NB, this is just to blast away my mental writer's cramp - I am not trying particularly hard in any aspect.)

The Tale of the Not-Quite-Right Teapot

Once upon a time, in a town not completely unlike your own, lived a man. Quite an ordinary man, actually, who lived an ordinary life. Now, shockingly, this man had a name. What was his name I hear you ask? Well I'll tell you: it was Charles Wexley. Not  a bad name, eh? I think it's quite noble sounding. Anway, Charles Wexley lived an almost completely ordinary life. He woke up every day at seven o'clock, (apart from Sundays, where he awoke at half past seven) put his slippers on, tripped over the rug, shuffled downstairs and made himself a cup of tea.  And most days, this ritual passed without incident.

However, this particular day, something was different. When Charles went to fill his china teapot up from the tap, something squeaked and bit his fingers. Since he was so unaccustomed to his teapot acting out of the ordinary, he quite ignored it until it once again attacked him. Somewhat perplexed this time, he placed it down on the counter and said 'Now, what IS the matter?' Before he could even question the fact that he was talking to his teapot, it replied 'What do you think you're doing, picking me up like that without good warning?' 

Now this was a bit much for Charles. He stared at the pot for a moment, which now seemed to have a well defined face on the side, and fainted dead away.  (Well can you blame him really? It's not often inanimate objects spring to life and begin to communicate with you.) Charles regained consciousness a few seconds later, and finding himself face down on the floor he let out a high pitched scream. He wasn't used to waking up in his kitchen, or anywhere other than his bed in fact.

Remembering the reason why he was on the floor, he jumped up (narrowly avoiding banging his head on the table) and squared up to the teapot, which was eyeing him with a strange look of amusement. (Although when you think about it, any look a teapot gives you is bound to be somewhat strange.) With a newly found and very tenuous bravado, Charles challenged the teapot's right to exist; 'Now what business do you have coming to life for no good reason? You don't see the chairs waltzing off down the street now, do you?' 

The teapot considered this for a moment. 'Well, what right do YOU have for being alive? As far as I can see, I have as much reason to be alive and well as you yourself do.' Charles was flustered by this question. He wasn't particularly skilled in typical debates, let alone existential ones with a tea-making implements.

'Yes, but I'm a person... And, and I was here first.' He said smugly.

'What makes you think I'M not a person?' replied the teapot thoughtfully.

'Well, you don't have any legs for a start. Or eyebrows for that matter. You have to have eyebrows to be a person.'

'Says who?'

'Well, says me. I say that to be a person, one must first possess two eyebrows.'

And while Charles wiggled his eyebrows in supposed victory, they jumped straight from his forehead onto the pot seemingly of their own accord.

'Now hold on just a minute, give those back!'

'Give what back?' Replied the pot, arching one of its stolen eyebrows in mock confusion.

'My eyebrows of course, they evacuated my face plain as day and landed there.' He gestured to the pot's conquests.

'My dear fellow, are you trying to tell me that your eyebrows simply leaped from your head for no particular reason? I must tell you, that sounds quite absurd.'

[More tomorrow]

The End

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