Around a year ago I came in from a night out, a tad intoxicated. In my kitchen I looked around me and I wanted to be productive, as was clearly the sensible thing to do at 4am. And I suppose I was; I ended up writing a collection of micro-stories about the collection of items in my kitchen.
I was looking through that notepad today and I decided I’d let them see the light of air, as nonsensical as they may be. If you choose to read them, please be kind, these are raw and unedited.
Here is the first of them:
The Saucer With Napolean Syndrome
The saucer was an angry little dish. He was like a human pinkie finger – Once used frequently, a mainstay in the kitchen, but now nothing but a little hanger-on at the end of the cupboard, on top of all the other, bigger ‘small’ plates.
This really bugged the saucer, as every time, any plate was to be used (never it) it would see it first and it would anticipate it as best as possible. Never any use.
Every now and again it gave a tantrum when it caught a glace out of the cupboard at those ‘mugs’ out on the table, unescorted. “Who do they think they are, anyway?” thought the saucer, jealously. “They think they’re fantastic because they can hold more, they’re just fat.”
Oh how the saucer longed for the sensation of the dishwasher again…but it looked as if it was never to be.
Until, (yes, there’s an until) one day, a great many people in black descended upon the house which caused rousing demand for dishes. Every dish. Everything. And it didn’t matter that everyone there was sad but him. It didn’t matter that the saucer was small, He’d been reunited with his cause, his cup, and not that ghastly mug.
Later that day the saucer broke after being dropped by an octogenarian.
If you liked this, stay tuned, there’s more tomorrow!