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The teapot

In the centre of the table sat the teapot, the porcelain greying with age, but still beautiful, the crimson flowers creeping over it. The handle had been broken multiple times but fixes rendered it capable of completing the function for which it was intended, whilst cracks in the surface revealed the bumps and scrapes it had been subject to.
Integral to the morning, whether this be the father’s first swig of tea as he rushes out of the door to work, or mother’s gently brewed with love cup to entice the teenagers out of bed for school, and the centre piece of lazy weekend breakfasts, the family gathered round, lingering over toast crumbs and Frosties stuck to the rims of bowls like limpets In the rock pool of milk.  ssential in the afternoon for brewing the accompaniment to a biscuit, and brewing the feelings and warming the friendship that allows two old friends to pour out their worries and woes, squeeze out their laughter and tears. Sometimes it was nothing more than a comforting hug, a way to punctuate the day and reassure that life was continuing. To greet visitors and family, a way to welcome people in, a way to display arms open greeting, even though in practice they hugged the cup that was given. The children would never open up without a warm cup of tea poured from the pot – warm, not hot, and her husband did not feel as if he had truly come home until the first sip was taken.
So of course it was going to be bruised and battered. It was
an object to be used, without realising how much it was relied upon, and the love integral to its function.

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