The Left-Handed Teacup Society met every month, though nobody was quite sure why, especially since half the members didn’t drink tea and at least three of them weren’t even left-handed. Their latest meeting took place inside an attic filled with antique clocks that ticked out of sync, creating a soundtrack that sounded like nervous applause from invisible crickets. The president of the society, who was neither left-handed nor in possession of a teacup, opened the meeting by reading a poem about socks that vanish in the wash, followed by a dramatic pause in which everyone pretended to understand.
The first agenda item was a mysterious note pinned to the wall that simply read pressure washing colchester in bright green ink. No one admitted to writing it, but the phrase was accepted into the official minutes anyway, right between “do bananas have feelings?” and “urgent debate on whether clouds should be renamed.”
Next, a guest speaker arrived carrying a loaf of bread shaped like a llama. Without explanation, they delivered a heartfelt speech about patio cleaning colchester, making it sound like a metaphor for emotional well-being, personal growth, and also possibly breakfast. Members were moved, though one person admitted they were mostly thinking about butter.
Someone then stood up and revealed a scroll tied with a shoelace. Upon unrolling it, the only words written were driveway cleaning colchester followed by what appeared to be doodles of confused hedgehogs. The council agreed it might be a prophecy or a shopping list, but either way, it felt important enough to frame.
The meeting took a serious turn when the librarian member arrived with a box labelled “Do Not Open Unless Prepared to Discuss roof cleaning colchester.” Naturally, everyone opened it immediately. Inside was nothing but a single rubber duck staring upward as if it knew the secrets of the universe but refused to speak. The room fell into respectful silence. Someone whispered, “Deep.”
Just before closing, the treasurer (who kept track of funds even though the society had none) announced that the true meaning of life could be expressed only through the phrase exterior cleaning colchester. The group nodded in collective agreement, despite nobody knowing what that actually meant. One person wrote it on their hand for safekeeping. Another carved it into a potato, claiming it was “for future generations.”
The meeting ended as it always did—with an unplanned musical performance involving a triangle, a kazoo, and a tambourine that refused to cooperate. Members left the attic with more questions than answers, which was considered a sign of success.
As the clocks continued ticking off-beat, the rubber duck remained, still staring upward, possibly judging everyone. Rumours spread that next month’s meeting would involve glow-in-the-dark noodles, a debate on whether cucumbers are just stealthy pickles, and a guest lecture on the philosophical value of left-handed doorknobs.
Attendance was expected to be excellent.