“The poor are rioting in the streets and farmers from the country will be here soon and they want your h…., your h, h…”

“My what? Speak!”, the king commanded.

“Your hoard of toast!”

The high court gasped including me.

“Sir Shorts, bar the gates! The toast can wait.” I was amazed. The king had never let toast wait. I ran out a door through the kitchen to the open courtyard. With both hands I was shutting the gates when I saw them, the mob armed with pitchforks coming straight for me. Crunch! I had been so busy looking at the mob that I forgot where my head was, and having your head slammed between a gate is not the best. I saw toast dance around my head.

When I came to my senses and toast stopped swirling across my vision, it had been some fifteen minutes. “It must be almost nine thirety and I’m only at toast number 47. I have six and half to do and quickly!” 

In the hallway to the kitchen I met a pitchfork pointed straight at me! Remembering the events that had passed, I ducked, grabbed the wooden shaft and with the butt end of it smote the man smarty on the head. With that dilemma over, I entered the kitchen. It was crawling with peasants! I jumped back into the hallway unnoticed. “I’m going to have to go the long way through the stables!” I thought. The king let toast wait, but not for long. It was twelve minutes before nine thirty. I had some time. The stables always disgusted me; it was so unclean. Someone grabbed me by the neck through the bars of one of the stalls and slammed me against the door.

“Thank goodness, Toaster, you’re here,” a gruff voice whispered.

“I’m in a hurry! Can’t you see I need to get my toast done? Let go of me, you Time-Wasting-” I noticed that the man was in a stable with the door barred and was probably put there against his will. I realised that this was serious, but not as serious as toast. Just as I was about to free myself the man produced a knife!

“Unbar the door!” This was more serious than toast!