The Kettle Conspiracy
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The Kettle knows
The kettle knows.
It doesn’t just boil water—it gauges urgency. It can smell lateness, taste panic, sense the sheer weight of a day balanced on those last two minutes. And it responds not with sympathy, but with spite.
On a Sunday morning, when the world is soft and slow and you’re not even fully dressed, the kettle is a sprinter. Whoosh, bubble, steam—done before you’ve even located the teabag. But on a Tuesday, when you’ve got exactly seven minutes to leave the house, find your keys, and not look like you’ve dressed in the dark? The kettle becomes geological. Whole landscapes could form while it mutters and stalls.
I’ve tried tricking it. Pretending I don’t care. Walking away, faffing with the post, acting casual—as though my entire survival doesn’t hinge on that mug of builder’s tea. But the kettle knows. It always knows.
There’s a moment, just before the boil, when it pauses. Like it’s considering whether to give in. A power play. A reminder of who’s really in charge here: not me, but the chrome jug with limescale scars and a plug that’s slightly loose.
And in that pause, I sometimes hear myself asking: is this what life is? Waiting for things that never hurry, precisely when you need them most?
Of course, then it clicks off.
And I drink.
And I’m late anyway.
