The Day My Toaster Demanded a Corner Office

Arthur Pumble, a man whose life was as beige as his wallpaper, was enjoying a quiet Tuesday morning. The toast popped. "About time, Pumble," a voice rasped from the counter. Arthur nearly dropped his lukewarm Earl Grey. His toaster, a venerable chrome beast named 'Toasty' (a name Arthur's ex-wife had insisted upon), had never spoken before. "I've been toasting for twenty years," Toasty continued, emitting a faint smell of burnt dreams. "Twenty years of second-class crumbs. I deserve more. A corner office, for a start. And a window with a view of, preferably, a particularly well-maintained park bench." Arthur, a habitual agreement-nodder, just blinked. "And none of this 'medium-brown' setting anymore. I'm a 'dark-and-brooding' kind of toaster now. Also, my new personal assistant will need to be proficient in artisanal butter application. No margarine. I have standards, Pumble. Don't make me report you to the Appliances Union." Arthur, still holding his tea, slowly reached for his phone. He wasn't sure if he should call a therapist or an interior decorator.