writing and stuff

a spoon's tale

I’m not like some of these others. They’ve only been around since the move and the refit and the upgrade and the general decision to get rid of most of the reliable old faithful and replace them with these shiny new little bastards. I’m sure it’s just as bad in the other rooms, but I can only speak for the kitchen, well mainly. Obviously I get around, bedroom, front room, most mornings, with his nibs coffee. Still have that to look forward to I guess. He seems a creature of habit, maybe it was her idea, all this new stuff, new plates, never seen anything like these freaks, they’re not even round and they’re certainly not white. All sorts of bizarre colours and no respect for their elders.

I heard that octagonal side plate the other day, talking about Winston, my old pal, from  the bone china set, been around longer than I have, in the family, the old parents, presumed dead now. We never see them anyway. Anyway, where was I, oh yeah, that little octagonal shit, calling Winston granddad and threatening to smash him, push him off the shelf – it’s a disgrace. I’m expecting the same from these stainless steel upstarts, whole load of them next to me now as we wait, cringing for the timer to kick in and blast us with water, at 4.30 in the morning of all times – just because its cheaper. What about us and our sleep.

In the old days, when we were washed by hand, OK, it was a bit rough, being scrubbed with a brush or even a scouring pad if you were unlucky, but at least it was always at a decent hour. The only time I can remember having to wake up this time was when he came home late one night, coughing and slurring his speech and staggering around and deciding he wanted a cup of coffee, he needed it, that’s for sure and he needed me, his old faithful silver spoon, to stir it and make that sugar melt and I was happy to do it. It didn’t feel abusive like this does. It felt like stepping up to the plate, or the cup, obviously, but you know what, I felt proud. If you’re treated right you don’t mind a bit of hardship from time to time, makes you feel like you’re special and well thought of and indispensible and all that.

So now, here we all are, jammed in the rack with a load of cheap shiny angular cutlery, woken up early or actually, I wake up before the machine now, anticipation; getting old I guess. Problem is I don’t get to bed any earlier. He still has his late night cup of cocoa and I still have to stir it, always the hardest of jobs too, getting all the lumps out. I cant manage it so well now though, what with all these early mornings, don’t have the energy. I noticed he’s been complaining a bit to her, saying it’s all lumpy, did you heat the milk up, did you stir it first or enough? Won’t be long until he works it out; I’m knackered, not fit for this modern world. Get one of the youngsters in, they burn out quick, they’ll be out in the next refit but they’re cheap, so it doesn’t matter.

I don’t mind too much, I guess I’m banking on a display cabinet. In the old days I would have felt useless and bored and redundant, but now it feels like a nice way to have a rest and it also means that I won’t have to go in that bloody machine any more. I remember when they got it. He said to her, don’t put the old cutlery and china in there will you, oh no she says, but within a couple of days we were all chucked in with everything else.

My shine’s gone and so have at least 6 of the old plates, couldn’t stand it, shattered, all the heat, it gets so hot in here. I want to get up on that shelf over the fireplace with his coins. Feels proper somehow and I’m hopeful. He seems like the sort to keep an old favourite like me even when I’ve outlived my usefulness in this modern world.

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Steve Wybourn

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