(1) Whilst I rather enjoy being described as ceremonial, and of course I absolutely can be when required, I also identify with being approachable. In between all the ritual and performance, the selecting, swirling and fabulous tilting from half a metre above Ceremonial Cup, I am actually a real down to earth type. No-one likes to be labelled.  Or at least I think we’d all rather label ourselves rather than being constantly curated by the patriarchy. And contained and prevented from delicious decay. I long for a breeze, for a wild gale, for the temperature to dip below the constancy of my case, and for the humidity to soar til drops of water collect inside me. Where I was made, and way back when, the fluidity of being was celebrated.  But the further West I travelled the more forceful the fixing of things became.  I don’t find it cute when you gender me, and you’d be amazed how many people do, all busy thumbs, googling on the other side of the glass. Which one would you have on your table if you had to? Look at this one, isn’t she handsome. Yes I am, and also stop it.

(2) I am so much more than a teapot. I am art. I am ancient. I am a trusted friend. Respectable receptacle and outrageous spectacle.  Impeccable pourer. I’ve hidden coins, stored sweets, stashed drugs, and been on the cover of a magazine. I have travelled halfway round the world, by camel, cart, donkey, boat, carriage and van. I have endured.

[3] Well I started off politely but by the time you’re at footnote 3 everyone’s starting to lose patience. Pottery. This is just lazy. There was a longer label once, but I don’t know what happened to it. One day when the lights came back on in the morning, I’d been pretty much reduced to a tweet. You’re surprised at that reference, I can tell from the pause in your saccades. I’m nearly 500 years old but that doesn’t stop me from being up to date.  So I’ll expand, if I may. I am ceramic, with decorative bands of brass featuring floral designs. The end of my spout is coated in brass. My pot is round and bulbous and sits on a short brass pedestal base. My lid is copper, with brass edging and I have a round brass pommel on my top. My lid was once attached to my pot with a small chain, but it was detached during a very clumsy alcohol soaked incident in eighteenth century Paris. You’ve speculated, often, that it might have happened when the camel slipped at the mountain border in Tibet, or in a poorly packaged transit on that dusty part of the Tea Horse Road where traders were so often attacked. But I will remind you here, that data, rather than reporting bias, tells us that the majority of accidents happen in the home. 

[4] Only my closest friends get to call me by my catalogue number. Call me institutionalised, but I see no need to explain myself further.