Say you'll love me, tea cup.

It was another foggy morning in Derbyshire and the air was thick with humidity. All over town people were busying themselves with their usual Monday morning routines. They were putting out the dog, hanging whole lines of washing, ironing a favourite pair of pants and cajoling their children away from wide television screens and into their school uniforms. But whilst the rest of Derby's residents were wallowing in their own Monday morning blues, one young boy was still smiling.

"If I lived in the sky, I bet it'd be cloudy and foggy all the time..." he said; peeling back his sheets and grabbing a hold of his glasses.

Something warm and wet brushed against his ankle. He hoped he hadn't wet the bed again; his mother had only just changed the sheets. Stepping cautiously from his (too small) single bed, he took a deep breath and peered beneath the covers. Blood.

Suddenly and without warning, a crew of masked and machete wielding ninjas flew through his open bedroom window (which had been closed just moments ago) and landed neatly at the base of his bed. "You possess a very powerful weapon young master. Hand it over and we'll consider sparing your life!" And in an instant the masked and machete wielding ninjas ripped their fierce masks from their faces and revealed a mass of power hungry (and balding) secret agents; all threatening to shoot if he didn't step away from the suspicious looking artefact hidden beneath his sheets.

Tony took a big, shuddering breath and opened his eyes. The fog still hadn't lifted, but he was relieved to see that there was a definite absence of masked ninjas and wiry, balding men snooping in his front garden. Apparently he'd just imagined them there, but that wasn't anything unusual, Tony was always imagining things that weren't there.

Something warm and red trickled from an open stitch in Tony's sock. "Bed must've sprung a spring." he said.

Looking down at his bloody toe, Tony wondered what he'd tell his class mates that day. Maybe his injured foot was bad enough to need crutches and a few stitches? Perhaps he'd say that as of that morning he'd been recruited as an underage cadet for the police force and was injured in the line of duty? Of course, no one would ever believe this story. Then again, no one ever believed any of Tony's stories. It was popular knowledge that Tony was the class clown, geek, hypochondriac, underachiever, first year ballet dancer, remedial maths lesson taker, asthma sufferer and wild attention seeking prat all rolled into one.

"Okay, so maybe the 'prat' comment's a bit harsh, tea cup..." he said. And before you can ponder long enough to ask: yes, Tony enjoys speaking to his grandmother's tea cup. In fact, Tony spends many hours a day engaged in deep and convoluted conversations with his tea cup.

"I wonder if the blood's gunna' stain my sock, tea cup?" he said. But as for the millionth time that year, tea cup refused to answer him. "Fine, be like that! But I'll have you know tea cup, you've all the emotional depth of a soup spoon!" As is clear by this unnecessary outburst at his beloved tea cup, Tony was feeling restless. Then again, he felt restless most of the time. This can all be attributed to the fact that his plan isn't going to - well - plan.

Oh? You don't know about the plan? Well, for months now, Tony (and tea cup of course) have been planning a daring and devilishly dangerous plan to skip school and town and home for the rest of their lives. One day, they decided, they'd walk right out their front door and never come back.

"We'll have to come back to eat dinner though, tea cup. I don't know about you, but I'm a rotten cook. Can't even make a piece of toast without burning it!" he chuckled. Tony and tea cup would also need to come home at least once a week because Tony's friend Charlie told him they couldn't stay Sunday nights due to it being 'family night' and since neither Tony nor tea cup are in any way related to the Boston family, neither are invited.

"Golly, if only we could leave this place without having to worry about where our feet and saucer are going to take us!" he gave an aggrieved sigh and stared longingly out of his bedroom window.

Tony's toe throbbed painfully. It seems he could no longer ignore his bloodied sock.

"There's no way I can rid of that stain now, I've definitely left it too late..." But Tony was always leaving things too late. His homework was never finished in time, the dishes were always half done, he never brought the washing in off the line (before the clouds could dump a heap on rain on them) and he's incapable of sitting through an entire conversation with anyone (least of all his parents) without his mind drifting toward his tea cup and to the masked and machete wielding ninjas waiting patiently by his bed hangings and to the balding government agents and their loaded guns.

Tony was constantly thinking ahead to the day he and tea cup hopped on a train (headed for nowhere) travelling from countryside to countryside, eating marshmallows and wowing fellow passengers with their wild stories of raids in Egypt and of great romances in Paris.

"Yes Mum, I'll throw the Napisan in with the sheets. I won't forget!"

But Tony had lied, he would forget. In fact, by the time you've finished reading this sentence he'll be off dreaming up more stories to tell tea cup without even the slightest notion of what it was his mother had just asked him to do.

Ah well, c'est la vie.

The end