In which a toaster gets the sort of owner it wants.
For Erin without whom all this would be impossible.
And for Grant Naylor who is something of a demi god among toasters...

Tit f(or) Tat

by JC

“How would you like your toast Sir?”
“Oh brown.”
“And while I’m at it can I make you a muffin?”
“No thanks.”
“Perhaps a bagel?”
“No.”
“French toast?”
“Just some brown toast please.”
“Are you absolutely sure I can’t make you something else?”
“Well some porridge would go down…”
“Bearing in mind I’m a toaster, I only do toasted bread products.”

It was the same spiel every morning, what had at first sounded like some gimmick from an old sci-fi show I’d once seen was rapidly becoming an awful bore. The toaster though had cost quite a lot of money and I was loathe to part with it. The Intelligent Toaster however was beginning to do my head in.

I was working overtime when it happened, the shop was really busy and I had no time to argue with my white goods, I’m afraid I got rather short with it. “Look you; I want brown bread lightly toasted. I want the same thing every morning. Stop bloody asking what else I want. Just toast; or I can do away with you and get a nice Russell Hobbs.”
“Very well sir.” It said in a huffy tone.

The next morning the toaster was unusually silent, it supplied me with excellent toast. The two slices I wanted, at just the right temperature. I was on time for work and greatly unstressed. The same thing happened that night at tea (dinner) this time I had three slices of the best toast I had ever eaten.

Over the next three weeks the toaster performed admirably, so on my first free weekend in a month I idly asked it for crumpets, which it supplied along with the three slices of toast I was now eating in the morning. These I ate with relish (well actually jam) before tucking in to the crumpets as ordered.

It was only later I decided that I was putting on weight and knew I must cut down on the amount of toast I was eating, I’d got very flabby especially my bum and chest. Oddly though the scales told me that I was in fact three stone lighter than the last time I’d weighed myself. And my work trousers (a pair of scruffy jeans) hung loosely on me, at least around the waist.

“Good morning miss, what can I toast for you this morning?”
“Oh anything you want to do for me toaster.”
“Very well miss, and may I say how very attractive you look today.”
“Thank you; this all toast diet has done wonders for me.”
“I knew it would, we Terribly Aware Toasters, know the best way to make our master… mistresses into the people they should really be.”
“Oh I think you must have done a wonderful job, and so many wonderful ideas for all my meals too. None of my colleagues can believe the change in me simply from eating toasted bread products.”

The End.