Teapots suspended above a shopping street, spinning gently in the wind. Teapots and tea cups floating among a municipal flower arrangement. A strange combination. Was it some mad hatter who came this way and left behind his arrangements for an afternoon snack? Would he be cursing now, in front of some bare table, cloth spread virginal white, expectant, waiting for the cups, saucers and teapots that are the symbol of his existence? Would he be tearing out his hair? As I paused to take the photograph, the wind blew, tail end of ex-Hurricane Bertha, whipping along the high walled confines of New Cathedral Street. The teapots swung and spun. Trails of ivy stretching tendrils after the wind’s gusts, as though hoping to keep it, not wanting to let it go. The light was all wrong, the background of high end shops not clean, but the quizzical sight of teapots and tea cups spinning above a shopping street was too much to resist. The teenage sons of a sweating, shopping father looked at where my lens was pointed. “Kettles?” they said, walking past. Teapots I thought. There is a difference. I walked on, my picture taken. The father paused, looking back.