Andy Hawthorne

There I was, making my morning coffee: kettle boiling, coffee in the mug, one sugar, milk out ready to go.

I opened the cutlery drawer and picked the teaspoon I always use. It has the right bowl depth and ideal stem length for the making of a brew.

“Typical! There you go, picking your favourite! We’re all here, happy to be dipped in whatever liquids you happen to be making. But oh no, it’s always THAT one.”

I jumped. I’m used to the kettle having opinions, and I’ve had my share of unwanted life coaching from the toaster. But the teaspoons? That was odd.

“Er, it’s to do with bowl depth. And the stem—”

“And you think we had any choice about that? You humans are born with one leg longer than the other. It’s the same for us. Our stems are our stems. My bowl? That’s a generic line from my Grandfather.”

Now, being honest, I didn’t know teaspoons had genetics. Also being honest, I just wanted a brew.

“Right, anyway, thanks. I’ll just make my brew…”

The bloody drawer snapped shut. Had I not whipped my fingers away with the speed of a striking hedgehog, I’d be one knuckle short of a stir.

“Oi! Careful! You nearly had my fingers off!”

A muffled voice replied, something like: “Clucked cough.” I have a feeling it was ruder than that. Then a plastic spoon fell out of the drawer, gave me side-eye and said: “I might be plastic, but I feel the same way as the metal teaspoon. So watch it.”

I used the plastic one. Carefully. You have to be careful with plastic spoons. They are common and swear a lot for no reason—

“Do we, bollocks!”

See what I mean?