Pottery

The old teapot: stain-encrusted ceramic criss-crossed with scores and cracks like wrinkles on weather-beaten skin. It was never born to steam with Darjeeling, or nurture the citrus scent of Earl Grey beneath the cosiest of cosies. It gave its life to being bunged full of PG Tips bags at five in the evening, breathing out clouds of warmth onto cold kitchen windows.

(For those concerned about the fieldfare in yesterday's blip, unfortunately it hasn't shown itself today. I suspect it may have met the Prowling Cat of Fate at some point last night).