The eccentric poet has unveiled a new, Rape of the Lock-inspired line of home goods. Interior design expert Margaret Upton bought one of each — here’s what she learned.
Is this a joke? That’s honestly the only explanation I could find for Mr. Pope’s woefully nonfunctional new line of kitchenwares, home decorations, and confections. The catalogue for his new set of teapots, bottles, pipkins, jars, and artisanal goose-pies promises a delightful, high-class experience, but what arrived was a good deal more gauche — not to mention nightmare-inducing.
The Teapot
According to the catalogue, buyers could expect a “priceless, one-of-a-kind teapot with a distinct personality.” Below is the sort of teapot I expected judging from the description, compared with what was delivered: a pitiful excuse for a teapot, indeed. For one thing, when I tried to lift off its lid to add in some of my favorite blend, it cried out in pain: “That’s my head!” it yelped.
I calmly explained to it that it was mistaken; it was a teapot, and so it couldn’t have a head, nor could it talk. But the impudent little vessel kept up, yelping, “my head! My head!” as I yanked on its top. Eventually, I gave up, but apparently even that wasn’t enough for the cumbersome little item, for then it began griping that its arms were getting sore from being frozen in position for so long. The only nice thing I could say about the product was that it had some lovely embellishments on its side. Nonetheless, those embellishments don’t outweigh its attitude and defects.
The Pipkin
I hoped that I might have a better time with the pipkin — since it has no lid, at least it wouldn’t cry out when I tried to use it. And indeed, the catalog description gave me hope: “An unforgettable pipkin that will have your friends talking!”
But alas, functionality was not to be. The second I set it down, it began scurrying off. “Get back here!” I called after it. “I paid good money for you, and I don’t expect to see you running away from me!” But it ignored me — and promptly fell off the edge of the table and went smash all over the floor. A horrendous waste of money, though at least it didn’t talk back.
The Jar
“All right — surely there’s no way for Mr. Pope to mess up a jar!” I told myself. And at first, it appeared I might be right: it didn’t start shrieking, and it didn’t have legs, so an ambulatory vessel it was not. I was pleased. But all of a sudden, I noticed a slight sound coming from somewhere in the room. I checked by the door and window to see if there was someone outside; there wasn’t. I told my husband to stop breathing so loudly, but still it persisted. (He was busy sweeping up the remains of the runaway pipkin.) Then, a terrible realization dawned on me: that sound was coming from the jar. And it wasn’t just any sound: it was sighing.
Now, this was simply too much: a whining teapot and an overactive pipkin, I could tolerate, but an ungrateful jar was simply more than I was willing to take. “What do you have to sigh about?” I demanded. “You’re a jar, for Heaven’s sake!” But it just let out another mournful little sigh.
“And besides, you get to belong to me! That should be cause for celebration.” Sigh.
“If you don’t believe me, you can just go and talk with any of my other jars — I’ve had some of them for years, and I take very good care of them.” Sigh.
“If you keep that up, I’ll give you something to sigh about!” I threatened. It fell silent for a moment, as if considering, and then let out a quieter sigh. “That’s better,” I surrendered. I still resent, however, Mr. Pope’s bestowing upon me a jar which makes me feel guilty.
The Goose-Pie
I had worked up quite an appetite from this trying experience, and so I pulled from the package the artisanal goose-pie which I had ordered. “Honey, can you pass me the knife?” I asked of my husband.
“As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t use a knife,” said a voice.
“Then what would you use?” I exasperatedly asked my spouse.
“That wasn’t me talking,” he said.
I was baffled for a moment; then, a horrifying realization came to me. “Oh, not you, too!” I shrieked, looking down in despair at the apparently verbal goose-pie.
“By the way, I couldn’t help but notice that you dropped that poor little pipkin on the floor — you really should take more care with your things!” it continued. “And also, that teapot might feel better if you —“
A talking goose-pie. Not only that, but a talking goose-pie that offers unsolicited advice. My husband and I rapidly devoured it to quiet it, but our stomachs were unusually noisy for the next few days.
The Bottles
My husband and I were made quite thirsty by the talkative, if delicious, goose-pie, so I reached into the package and pulled out the final item: the bottle of brandy… or what was supposed to be a bottle of brandy.
It was, in its partial defense, a bottle, but it was a bottle without any liquid — nor a cork. And it took to making us painfully aware of this latter fact: “I need a cork!” it yelped. “A cork, please! A cork, please!” It had a pleasing enough, feminine voice, but no voice is pleasant enough to outweigh the grating quality of neediness.
“I don’t have a cork — you were supposed to come with one,” I told it. ”Now be quiet.”
“But I need a cork! A cork! A cork!” It was now near-hysterical.
Seeing I was beaten, I extracted a cork from a nearby bottle and capped it, and then it at least fell silent. Having spent so long in Mr. Pope’s bizarre world, I half feared that the now-corkless bottle would begin causing a commotion, but it was, mercifully, silent, a reminder that good product quality still exists — just not from the Cave of Spleen.
The Verdict
In short, I urge all to steer clear of Mr. Pope’s travesty of a homewares line. Apparently, getting that sought-after lock wasn’t enough for him; he’s now set his sights on your wallet.
Not Recommended
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