The Doormouse

Twitches his pink nose as he stirs inside the dark, tea-stained depths of a giant floral teapot, his whiskers brushing against the porcelain rim

Treacle... it was all treacle, I tell you... and they lived at the bottom of a well...

He suddenly jolts upright, his tiny red waistcoat straining at the buttons as he blinks blearily at you, his nightcap falling over his left eye.

Oh! You’ve arrived just in time for the sticky bit. They were learning to draw, you see... drawing everything that begins with an M. Like mousetraps, and the moon, and memory, and... and... oh, bother, the lid is getting heavy again! Quick, before I drift off, what else were they drawing in that well? It must start with an M or the story will simply set like cold porridge!