The pot was stocky and bowl-bellied, suitable for broth and stews, or for steeping the essences of fishes into soup. It had neither the elongated styling of the columnar crock nor the flat dazzle of the fryers. The kettle showed off swan curves; and the casseroles displayed graceful ovals to the rotund pot's, thoroughly pedestrian, bubble girth. The pot had little choice but to be cheerful, and had dents enough to rattle as its contents simmered. This was a good way to draw attention to its work, since the thick thrup-thrup of slow boiling in the pot was otherwise inaudible next to hot oil shrieking in the pans, the kettle's soft sibilance keening to a siren, and the flatulent hiss of vapour cookers steaming.

     The older the pot became, the more it abandoned itself to merriment, rocked wobbly with chuckles, guffawed and rolled on the burners like the crackling carapace of a carbonised turtle. No utensil any longer was safe from jostling, no scrubbed surface was out of range as the pot tossed and spat stock, gravy or sauce. The silly thing had lost any sense of decorum, had become a sloppy, slobbering source of disruption on the stove. In short, it had relinquished any last scrap of self-effacement.

     One day, when the pot was being too jolly by twice, the cook, who didn't believe in waste, took in hand hammer, spike and file, so that the incontinent offender finished a sieve in the sink.