Dear ______,
Our earlier correspondence reveals that I have been suffering from a number of disorders culminating in a form of paranoia from talking objects. You know how people talk to cars, tools or other implements – usually to curse them for not working properly? Well, mine is the other way around.
I now want to place on record, and deposit with a reliable person (you) a statement as to what has happened. You will know where to send it in suitable circumstances.
It all started when Pat and Chris sent me one of the new-style teapots with a special used-leaf flushing device. Each of these teapots is sent to its new home accompanied by a letter addressed "To the teapot's friend". The letter introduces the piece of crockery, boasts about its provenance and goes on to give peremptory directions on its care and maintenance. Worst of all, the letter is written in the first person singular.
I contacted the London Teapot Company. I was put in touch with Customer Service. After the usual evasion and defensive prevarication, they finally understood that I was going to make a positive design suggestion. I was connected with the Development Dept.
To Development I made the obvious suggestion that the 'messages' from the teapots could be made using audio, from microchips located in the lids. There was panic at the other end of the phone! They said they'd call around to see me about any intellectual property claims.
Within twenty minutes three of them arrived. After ascertaining that I represented no other teapot company or other high-tech interest they told me that I had been selected as a Product Promotion Representative in the locality. Two of them took me into another room while the technician modernised the kitchen system audio feedback. They all left, saying it was self-explanatory.
The whole episode had been conducted at such whirlwind speed. I was unsure what to do next. Finally, I went into the kitchen clutching my initial royalty of 1/2 lb of Darjeeling. As soon as I picked up the teapot a voice spoke from inside it.
"Hello," said a bright girlish voice. "May I introduce myself? My name's Tealeaf. I'm you new Tea Beverage Infuser and Dispenser. I want to serve you for ever and ever. You can play your part by following a few simple rules to care for me. First, initial cleaning . . . " I left the kitchen at speed.
I thought I'd wait until the sugary message was over. Then I'd go back and make myself a cup of tea. After half an hour, as I approached the teapot again, it said rather crossly "May I remind you I was just going to list the maintenance rules. Now – ahem! – initial cleaning . . . "
I was furious! I was not going to be spoken to like that in my own house – particularly by a new teapot. "Just shut up!" I shouted. "When I want any chat from you I'll ask you. Meanwhile, I'm going to see how good you are at making tea." I took off the lid.
There was a scream of distress. "You can't do that! You haven't completed my initial cleaning." I ignored the complain and inserted two spoonfuls of Darjeeling. This provoked wails of snivelling protest. "You've got to obey the guidelines! Otherwise, I'll be defective." I ignored this drivel and progressed with my tea making.
Now the objections took on a menacing tone. "Of course, you don't care if you prepare your food in squalor! We all know how you fail to clean Gus! One of these days he'll turn and give you food poisoning. And serves you right!"
"Gus?" I asked. "Yes, Gud. Don't you even know his name? He's only been your faithful gas stove all these years! And all that time you've never given a word of thanks, has he Gus?" A deep wheezy voice from the gas stove answered. "Not a word," it affirmed. "Just the occasional curse when the pilot light goes out, but you get used to it, love. You'll see. You learn to take your companionship from the other kitchen characters. We're one big happy family without this dirty beast, aren't we?" There was a chorus of approval from the other kitchen items.
I got out fast and have not returned. I eat out nowadays. Occasionally, I pause by the kitchen door. I can hear them gossiping, exchanging risqué stories and crude anecdotes about me. The conversation is incessant.
I have reported my condition to the London Teapot Company and they just laughed. I've spoken to the vicar and we are going to have an exorcism a week on Wednesday. You're welcome to attend but you'll have to bring your own flask and sandwiches.
Yours,
Con
