We are, by our very nature, discreet. We sit silently on the worktop, day after day, watching you shuffle around in your dressing gown, blinking blearily at the morning light. We endure the clatter of cereal bowls, the screech of the toaster ejecting its slightly burnt offerings, the slamming of fridge doors as you curse the empty milk carton. And all the while, we keep our secrets. We don’t ask for thanks, or praise, or even a quick wipe down with a damp cloth. But I’ll admit it — we see everything. And some of us have started to talk.
A Kettle’s Life is a Lonely One
I should explain: I am a kettle. I spend my days sitting beside the sink, slightly damp and forever plugged in, watching you live your chaotic, caffeinated life. My job, on the face of it, is simple — boil water, whistle faintly, and try not to develop limescale too quickly. But over the years, I have also become something of an observer. I know, for example, that you only clean the crumb tray of the toaster when the smell of burning becomes impossible to ignore. I know you sometimes use the microwave as a makeshift plate warmer when you forget to serve dinner on time. I know you once used a spatula to fish a teabag out of the sink rather than get your hands wet.
And if you think I’m the only one taking notes, you’re sorely mistaken. The fridge is a veritable library of embarrassing food habits. The oven has seen more frozen pizzas than a student bedsit. Even the humble chopping board has opinions, though it rarely speaks unless you lean on it in just the right spot. We all talk, you see, when you’re not around. We have to. The blender is insufferably smug, the toastie maker is bitter about being banished to the back of the cupboard, and the slow cooker has developed a deeply sarcastic sense of humour over the years.
The Microwave is a Born Gossiper
Take the microwave, for instance. A moody, slightly neurotic piece of machinery with a suspicious fondness for leftover curry and a deep, unspoken grudge against anything wrapped in cling film. It spends its days rotating bowls of soup and reheating forgotten cups of tea, forever listening to the impatient beeping of its own timer. It knows you lean on it when you’re too tired to stand properly, that you open its door mid-beep just to avoid the final, passive-aggressive shriek of its completion chime.
It has seen you eat microwave popcorn for dinner. It has seen you drink questionable, reheated coffee at 11 p.m. while staring blankly into the middle distance. It has witnessed you attempting to defrost mince in a frantic pre-dinner panic, only to give up and order a takeaway instead. And it judges you for all of it. It remembers the time you accidentally melted a plastic container and pretended you didn’t notice. It recalls the tragic day you left a forgotten mug of hot chocolate inside it for a week, only to find it days later with a crust that could have passed for experimental pottery.
Microwaves are gossips, plain and simple. They remember every overcooked bowl of porridge, every forgotten reheated lasagne, every sad microwaveable meal for one. They know your shame, and they talk about it behind your back.
The Kettle Knows Too Much
But if the microwave is a bitter, slightly passive-aggressive tattletale, then I — the kettle — am a true witness to the absurdity of human life. I have boiled water for your finest cups of tea, only to watch you forget them on the side while scrolling mindlessly through your phone. I have steamed proudly for your morning coffee, only to be ignored in favour of a quick splash of cold water because you “couldn’t be bothered waiting.” I have heard your groggy muttering at 6 a.m., your half-hearted resolutions to cut back on caffeine, and your late-night debates about whether you really need another cup before bed.
And yes, I have seen you standing there in your kitchen, arguing with an empty room about the placement of the toaster, or singing softly to the cat while waiting for my whistle to rise. I have seen you drop biscuits into mugs, spill sugar across the worktop, and attempt to drink tea that is, by all reasonable standards, still far too hot. I know how often you refill me without actually drinking the tea you promised yourself you needed. I know how many times you’ve sworn to switch to herbal tea and then reached for the double-strength builder’s blend instead.
We See You, We Judge You
So the next time you walk into your kitchen, glance suspiciously at your appliances, and wonder if they might be watching you, the answer is simple: yes. We are. And frankly, we’re not impressed. The toaster, for all its bravado, is a dreadful gossip. The coffee machine never shuts up about your overuse of vanilla syrup. The fridge is quietly furious about the state of the bottom shelf.
But don’t worry — your secrets are safe with us. After all, we need you as much as you need us. And besides, the toaster can’t keep a secret to save its life.
Dwight Warner is the quintessential oddball Brit, with a weirdly American-sounding name, who has a knack for turning the mundane into the extraordinary. Hailing originally from London, now living in the sleepy depths of Lincolnshire but claiming an allegiance to the absurd, Dwight has perfected the art of finding the surreal in real life. Whether it’s a spirited rant about the philosophical implications of queueing or a deep dive into why tea tastes better in a mug older than you, his blogs blur the line between the abstract and the everyday.
With an irreverent wit and a penchant for tangents that somehow come full circle, Dwight Warner doesn’t just write; he performs on the page. His humour is both sharp and delightfully nonsensical, like Monty Python met your nosiest neighbour and they decided to co-write a diary.
Known for being gregarious, Dwight is the life of any (real or metaphorical) party, whether he’s deconstructing the existential crisis of mismatched socks or sharing his inexplicable theories about why pigeons are secretly running the economy.
A larger-than-life personality with a laugh as loud as his opinions, Dwight Warner invites readers to step into a world where everything’s slightly askew—and that’s exactly how he likes it.