One Day in the Life of a (Superior) Teacup

I never thought anyone would want me. ‘Pear shaped’, ‘odd’, ‘chunky’ and ‘sturdy’. Those words forever used to follow me, a constant pagan chant that clung to me like dried seaweed to flesh.

My first home – on the shelf in the homeware section of TKMaxx – was bleak. I didn’t get on with the other mugs – they were too…snobby and had way smaller handles than I did. That was the end really. Having a small handle meant everything there. It was your key into the popular crowd and it also meant that you would be picked up by them.

To elaborate, they were four fingers and, as I recently found out, one thumb. I have been told they are called hands.

Anyway, the small handled cups may have been the creme de la cream but…they were right bitches. That and I had never come across such a vapid bunch in all my life. Even the plates weren’t as bad as they were. The small handled cups were constantly being picked up by the hands and were whisked away, ready to live their happily ever after. When one left, they were replaced by another small handled cup with cats or some shit on them.

Not to brag, but I am definitely way more pretty than they are. Sure, I’m bigger but was hand-painted by a lovely man with two dogs somewhere in England so there. I’m truly unique. Not that it matters because clearly, and this is aimed at TKMaxx consumers, YOU’RE NOT AFTER ORIGINALITY. But I digress. So, there I was, miserable and then it happened and I thought maybe, just maybe, things were about to get better.

No.

I was moved to the sales section, a ridiculously bright sticker slapped on my arse declaring I was now only worth a measly quid fifty pend and placed amongst the other rejects. We had Sally the broken spatula, Gary the biscuit container in a cow print and a massive dent on his forehead, Colin the colander – too many holes that one – and so many more. If I had thought the elite slim handled cups were bad, this bunch…what miserable sods. But there was a sense of unity, I suppose, we were all fed up and bitter. Just before I left, Gary was even suggesting of having a revolution. I wasn’t going to take any part in that. No, I’d rather wallow. I felt cheap. Cheap and tacky.

Even in the sales section no one wanted me. I decided to accept my fate of solitude. I will grow mouldy, and more bitter and more resentful until eventually, I’ll tip myself over the edge and end it all. When I had reached my lowest point and thought all hope was gone, she happened –

“OH MY GOD, Mum, look at how cute this cup is!”

Cute? I did a double take and looked around. Me?

“No. You don’t need any more cups. You’re one step away from being a hoarder.”

“I don’t care. So be it. I’m a cup hoarder. I’m getting it. Look at this pretty pattern. AND LOOK. A sturdy handle. You know I love a good handle.”

I was lifted by The Hand, held tightly in her grip as I sailed past the other cups.

So long bitches. Sayonara, adios, au revoir, good-fucking-bye.

Fin.

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