Peter inspected his teapot. It was good. It was porcelain. He poured himself a cup of whatever the hell was stored in the teapot and began to drink. Mmm… Pepsi Max. It was refreshing, although probably considerably worse for having been boiled at 100 degrees celsius. He rested his cup on a doily. Also made of porcelain. Peter lived in the porcelain woods in his porcelain house. It was like that song by Eiffel 65, thought Peter, but with porcelain. This was a relatively niche reference, so Peter would have been impressed if anybody understood what the hell he was talking about, though he would recommend that you did not listen to the song if you did find it, because in actual fact it’s pretty dire. Anyway, Peter Petroleum lived in the porcelain woods in his porcelain house. He felt safe in the porcelain woods, having lived here since he was a child of just eleven years old. He was now seventy seven thousand years old, something that would have been considered remarkable, were he to have been human. As it happened, he was not. He was pure petroleum. In petroleum terms, he were still a young boy. Albeit a young boy who could quite easily slicken himself into the form of an elk if the mood took him.

Peter washed his cup in the sink. It had become soaked in petroleum. Not a problem for Peter as such, being as he was, petroleum, but it might be more of a problem for his guests, who were not accustomed to the intricacies of handling oil-laced mugs. Peter Fairy Liquidised his cups and left them to dry on the sideboard. He checked the clock. It was 3:15. Plenty of time for them to dry before his guests arrived. What was he going to cook was the question? Peter opened the fridge and saw some leftover vol-au-vents from his last party. As with everything else in the fridge, they were soaked in petroleum. Peter swore to himself. It was at times like this that he half wished he wasn’t the way he was. This was not the frame of mind to be in for dinner. He shifted into an elk to remind himself why he so loved his molecular composition. The elky Peter laughed at the vol-au-vents, and closed the fridge. It was no matter, he would simply walk down to the pizza tree and pick himself something tasty for him and his guests to enjoy later. He scrawled himself a note ‘remember to wear gloves when you pop down to the pizza tree’, it read.

Peter went upstairs and inspected his wardrobe. He selected himself a tuxedo out of the many he owned. Peter did not lack money. Having lived for 77,000 years, he had been able to build up quite a vast reserve of cash, even though he only worked part-time. Besides that, he was also made of petroleum, so was revered as a man of quite some importance. Peter spilled himself into his tuxedo, his liquid frame expanding to make it fit as if it had been tailored specifically for him. He had had the tuxedo lined with plastic, so as not to seep petrol into the fabric. Peter tied his bow tie around his neck, and checked his reflection. Yes, he thought. Yes Peter, you look like you’re made of petroleum. And he was.

Peter plodded through his porcelain house. He headed downstairs and looked at the sideboard. Yes, that cup looked like it was still drying. Peter was sure he’d heard something about drying cups before, in a story he’d read about cats in a city. Perhaps this was a recurring theme. One big recurring theme. Peter sighed and looked at the time. 5:30. Had it really taken him that long to put his tuxedo on? Evidently the answer was yes, but then he did take a break mid-way through to watch a bag of crisps blow about in the forest. In retrospect, that was not time well spent.

Peter opened his porcelain door and headed out into the forest. The porcelain forest was a lonely place. As far as Peter knew, it was just him who lived here. Nobody else really cared enough about porcelain to move to a place that was entirely crafted out of the stuff. Peter moved quietly through the ceramic trees. He soon found himself standing in front of the pizza tree. It had blossomed well over the summer. Peter rifled through its various fruits, eventually picking himself down a stuffed crust meat feast pizza, and a Hawaiian with a thin and crispy base. Peter had never really been sure about pineapple on pizzas, but he liked ham enough to balance out that potential question mark on the ‘ham vs pineapple’ culinary see-saw. He silently retreated away from the pizza tree and back to his porcelain retreat.

Peter put his pizzas in the oven and set it to 200 degrees. In retrospect, he should really have pre-heated it whilst he was out trapsing around the forest. ‘Forgot to pre-heat the oven’ Peter scrawled onto his long list of regrets which he kept on the fridge. Then, a knock at the door.

Peter slid across the lino and towards the foyer area. It took him a while, as his hands were naturally greasy, but finally he got it to work. It was his friends, Fiona Flame and Solomon Sand. Solomon smiled and handed Peter a plate of vol-au-vents. Peter took them from Solomon, unfortunately covering them in petroleum as he did. Peter swore quietly to himself at another vol-au-vent based accident, and ushered Fiona and Solomon in.

Peter pointed in the direction of the oven. Fiona and Solomon nodded their approval upon seeing both the meat feast and Hawaiian pizzas that dwelt within. What a variety of pizzas it was. A full two different kinds. Truly, tonight would be a banquet of the like not seen since Henry VIII decided he was going to eat two pizzas. Peter smiled at Fiona. Fiona smiled at Peter. Solomon smiled at Peter. Peter didn’t notice because he was too busy smiling at Fiona. Solomon tried smiling at Fiona, but was met by a similar problem. Eventually, Solomon just quietly smiled to himself whilst muttering something under his breath about Peter and Fiona being bastards.

Peter went to pick the pizzas out of the fan oven. He opened the door. Alas, the warm blast somewhat shook him, and tiny particles of petrol were sent cascading backwards towards Fiona. Fiona, unfortunately, being made of fire, ignited the tiny droplets, which in turn sparked the rest of Peter. Solomon panicked, and leapt across to douse the flames with his sandy body. Alas, he knocked over Fiona, sending her spiralling backwards onto Peter. Peter and Fiona toppled onto the floor on top of each other, quickly followed by Solomon. Solomon succeeded in smothering the flames, but unfortunately, Peter and Fiona were lost in the process. Solomon silently got up from the porcelain floor and stared at the fizzling embers that once made up his two friends. He sighed to himself, removed a pizza from the oven, poured himself a glass of Pepsi Max, and wondered how the hell he was going to end this story. Probably by drying a glass. Alas, the camera had long since panned out by the time he did.

This is what happens when I write whilst tired.