By Marlowe (slightly traumatised) Bellamy

Entry #041: The Day I Bribed the Toaster to Teach Me History (And Mum Got Involved Mid-Bath)

Let me explain.

My history homework was due. I had three hours, zero motivation, and a suspicious sausage piece stuck to my chin. Professor Sanza wanted “a full account of the post-Fracture socio-political tech evolution of the Seven Lands.” I, in return, wanted to cry.

So naturally… I asked the toaster.

And not just any toaster. No, I asked the Bellamy Household Series-7 Bread Combustion Assistant (nicknamed “Toastimus Prime”), a half-sentient relic from the Pre-Oops Era, currently operating on burnt crumbs, passive aggression, and one frayed copper wire tied with chewing gum.

It hates me.

But I was desperate.

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Scene: Me, hunched in the kitchen, wearing an inside-out jumper and the expression of a girl slowly being defeated by historical expectations.

Me: “Come on, Toastimus. Help me out. Just a few facts. A date. A name. An educated squeak?”

Toastimus Prime: (Makes a noise like a dying lightbulb trying to yodel.)

Me: “Okay. I see you’re playing hardball. What if… I polish your crumb tray? Hmm? Give you a warm-up cycle? I’ll even remove the rogue spaghetti noodle lodged in slot two.”

Toastimus: Ding. (I took that as a yes.)

Just as I was mid-negotiation, Mum shouted from the bathroom (door open, of course):

Mum (Starla): “If you’re threatening the toaster again, make sure you press down the left lever first! That’s the one linked to its moral reasoning module!”

Because that’s normal.
Because she built it.
Because my mother once welded a conscience circuit into a kitchen appliance on a dare.

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Back to the situation. I poured half a bottle of gear oil over a cleaning cloth, fluffed Toastimus’s sides, and whispered sweet affirmations.

Me: “You are more than a snack warmer. You are a relic. A survivor. A hero among half-appliances.”

Toastimus: Pop! (toasted absolutely nothing, just coughed out smoke in a proud, dusty puff.)

Then, dear reader, it happened.

The lights flickered. The vents wheezed. And Toastimus Prime… spoke.

Finally rattled its old wired and loosed it creaking levers, and spoke.
In a deep, croaky Welsh accent, like a pensioner dragon who once fought in the Great Crumb Rebellion and now delivers unsolicited wisdom with a side of carbon.

Toastimus:
“Right then, girl. Sit yerself down. I’ve got crumbs older than your maths grades and patience thinner than filo. Let’s get this over with before someone burns the butter again.”

I stared. Eyes wide. Buffing cloth paused mid-buff. Brain quietly rebooting.

Me: “You can talk?! In complete sentences, I mean.”

Toastimus:
“Talk? Course I can talk. Been talkin’ for years. Just no one bloody listens. Now grab a pen, love. Big boom. Shiny tech. Some clot pushed the Do Not Push button like it were a pig in a blanket at a wake. Whole world went sideways.”

Me: “I’ve officially lost it.”

Toastimus:
“You lost it when you tried to cook soup in the microwave. Now hush.”

He went on. And on.
References to the Unsliced Bread Riots of ’38.
A lengthy rant about council voltage restrictions.
And yes, he toasted a slice of sourdough into the exact silhouette of the Capital Tower while growling something about “symbolism in crust integrity.”

And then, just as I was scribbling down “Crumb Diplomacy: Pre-Fracture Edition”, the kettle chimed in.

Kettle (bubbling from the stove, thick Cockney accent) :
“’Ere we go again. Dramatic toast lectures before I’ve even reached a proper boil. Bleedin’ marvellous.”

Toastimus:
“Silence, you noisy tin bucket. She asked me.”

Kettle:
“Asked you? She threatened your crumb tray and called you a ‘glorified bread sarcophagus.’ That ain’t exactly affection, is it?”

Me:
“You’re BOTH talking?!”

Kettle:
“Course we are. Do you know your mother? What, you think all them midnight snack chats go unheard? You’re louder than a weasel in a trombone, you are.”

Toastimus:
“Ignore him, love. He’s still bitter I stole his plug socket in ’09.”

Kettle:
“I’m just sayin’, if you’re writing history, don’t forget the real heroes. Who kept the tea flowing during the Blackout of Bramblewick, eh? This guy. Burnt my own spout for the cause.”

Toastimus:
“You boiled puddle water and cried for a week. She’s writing about me.”

They bickered. I took notes. My eyeball ached.

The smoke alarm gave up halfway and started blinking in Morse code for “send help.”

PS:
If any of this sounds oddly familiar in the opening of a certain book, well… let’s just say Moira Rand may or may not have “borrowed” my toaster-induced trauma and turned it into a prologue.
She still owes me toast royalties.
Possibly my actual homework.

And no, I will not share my grade on said homework.

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