Love Freedom?
Contributor
Written by
Akosua Biraa
November 2016
Contributor
Written by
Akosua Biraa
November 2016

It was cleaning day at the Fossil’s mansion and this was never a simple or easy affair; everything, and I mean absolutely everything, got scrubbed, polished, washed, swept, rinsed, soaked and generally cleansed—to the last inch of its natural existence—by the mansion’s battery of domestic staff. Cleaning Day came about on a monthly cycle and this was not to say that no other housework took place between each of these special occasions. In fact, each day had its own routine of spotless checking: where Matron Sylvia went about the house inspecting the work of all the scullery and other maids to ensure that neither a gleam was left off of any utensils nor a speck of dust was visible on any surface; including the uppermost ridges of the chandeliers and fancy ceiling skirting, or the deepest darkest corners of every room. Nary could a cobweb nor spider survive in the mansion, never you mind any ant, cockroach or mouse.

 

So you see, Cleaning Day was almost a superfluous situation and yet each object in that place knew the gravity of the event too well; particularly those items that got into daily circulation like the crockery and cutlery, which were severally scoured and shined—so much so that their sides were rubbed bare and appeared to ‘glow’ as a consequence of losing much of their enamel or silver. The cleaning in Fossil’s mansion was such that it caused a stir amongst its inanimate inmates, many of which often declared it time to rebel; especially those that had experience (and the fortune) of having resided in other properties, where there was more negligence around cleanliness’ proximity to Godliness.

The armchairs spoke at length about such a better time and the dishes too grumbled about how life had been much easier in the showrooms, where they had the leisure to relax at length with only eyes setting upon them.

 

The porcelain dish was the most vocal on this matter, having newly arrived and detesting the constant scrubbing to which he had been subjected. In the respite of each meal time, as he sat laden with good eats, he moaned to the spoon (with whom he shared the same occasion) about how life was much improved in Carson Showroom and how perhaps they ought to liberate themselves from the abject foolishness of such constant cleaning in this rather prim and persnickety household. The spoon, having endured many years of buffing and bruising, felt too tired to do much about her circumstance. But she did like the idyllic tales told about another way and the release from the scouring pad that it could bring. She worried about what might soon become of her, having seen the lot of other old spoons: being tossed into the rubbish heap, when they could no longer shimmer as they used to do. This was a fate that she hoped would never meet her and so she endured every scrub and shine stoically—praying she could maintain her natural glow, although bits of her were beginning to obviously fade.

 

“We must get free, Matilda!” droned the dish for the third time “Tonight, at midnight.” – “I’ve found us a way.”

 

The spoon drifted out of her anxious thoughts, upon hearing her name: “A way?”

 

“Yes, a way.”

 

“But how, Clive?”

 

The dish, who did in fact have the stern and sturdy bearing of a Clive, paused for effect and then replied, “Well, that would give the game away ‘Tilda. And we can’t have that, can we!”

 

Matilda sighed, thinking it best she focus on being her graceful best in this present moment, rather than to mentally meddle in all of Clive’s love of so-called freedom.

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