The Flowerpot Man

The Flowerpot Man

The flowerpot man. I wanted him. He stood in the garden and mocked me everyday as I walked to college. Who the fuck makes a model of a man from flowerpots anyway? Some dickhead art student with “issues” no doubt.
I starred at him for much longer than was needed before begrudgingly walking towards college. Friday. Supposed to be the highlight of the week. Not when you’re 17 though, clubs get stricter at weekend, so we always end up sat in the gay-friendly ‘Buck and Union’ drinking dark mild at 90p a pint until they kicked us out at 8.
Friday day time was just as pointless as the night time. Double English as my idiot teacher complains about only ever managing to read ¼ of Joyce’s Ulysses, whilst I attempted to make subtle eye-contact with the red head who sat across from me, alas she seemed to look everywhere but my way in the 90 minutes of doom.
Eventually, the slowest clock in the world managed to tick around to twenty past four and I was spared anymore of Miss Boring’s constant droning. 
By half past I was in the Buck with the lads as we drowned as many pints of the dark stuff we could manage, which was usually around 2 seeing as it had the exact same colour, consistency and taste of vinegar. We decided to Mine sweep for a while before being thrown out for swearing on karaoke, but how could we not change the lyrics to ’How deep is your love?’.
We then began the standard stroll home, resigned to the fact that our Friday night was dead in the water before 9.  A game of football with an empty can of Vimto broke out and as we rounded the corner, a glimpse of a goofy smile flashed past my eyes. I stopped in my tracks, there he was. The Flowerpot man.
I hated him with every ounce of my being. I had to steal him. I quickly trotted over to the middle-class hedge which was the Flowerpot man’s fortress of solitude.
Now there is an art form to running through a hedge, fast, hard and keep your head down. A large root at the bottom of the hedge made me topple over and crash into the front garden’s lawn, right at the feet of my nemesis. I titled my head up and glared into the eyes of the Flowerpot man.
“Come on!” yelled my mate from the other side of the hedge.
I realised why he was making me rush as I was flooded in light from the automated light system. Shit!
I jumped up and grabbed the Flowerpot man by his head and pulled it clean off. Fuck! Why is it detachable? Who the hell decided it’d be a good idea for the head to come off and the slightest pull.
I flung the head over the hedge where one of the lads deftly snatched it out of the air. I fumbled through the hedge just as I heard the front door to the Flowerpot man’s home swing open.
I pelted down the street, feeling slightly sick due to the thick dark liquid floating around my stomach.


Laughing to myself on Monday morning, I confidently strode out of my house. As I rounded Cornish Way I had my eyes fixed on the hedge, ready to mock the headless Flowerpot man. I popped my head around the hedge and saw it starring back at me. Wide eyes and a toothy grin.
A new head.
Bastard.