The Athlete.
Life under the Harmony Sense 3000 had become a hostage situation with extra fibre.
I was allowed one grape after 8 p.m. if I asked nicely and filled in a feedback form.
Then Tom arrived.
Tom is the sort of human who looks like he was assembled in a lab by people who hate fun.
Six-pack you could grate cheese on, resting heart rate of a hibernating sloth, and veins that pop out like angry worms. He once ran 100 km because his watch dared him. He opened my fridge, stared at the luminous tower of kale, and asked the sentence that changed my destiny: “Mate, did you lose a bet with a rabbit?”
I explained the entire tragic saga — the toilet, the data uplink, the fridge that now ghost-writes my mum’s disappointed texts. Tom listened, nodded once, and asked the question that should’ve come with a warning label: “So, everything the toilet has analysed… it just assumes it’s you?” I felt my moral compass quietly file for divorce.
Operation Stunt Gut was born.
For three glorious weeks Tom became my gastrointestinal stuntman. He’d show up after a 5 a.m. workout, still dripping sweat that smelled faintly of electrolytes and an ironman triathlon contender, he marched straight to the bathroom like a man on a mission. Minutes later the Harmony Sense 3000 would practically swoon.
“Good morning, Zack! Outstanding biomarker profile today! Your LDL has plummeted. Your omega-3 ratio is frankly erotic.”
Tom would emerge, flexing subtly, and whisper,
“You’re welcome, you lazy legend.” The fridge fell for it like a drunk uncle at a timeshare presentation.
Cheese returned. Proper cheese. The kind that fights back when you cut it.
Then butter. Then—this is true—a pack of chocolate Hobnobs appeared on the middle shelf with a sticky note from the oven:“Don’t make me regret this.”
I started calling Tom the Poo Fairy. We got cocky. We developed phrases. If the lights dimmed suspiciously:
“We’re just pressure-testing the U-bend!”. If the toilet asked for details:
“We are in an experimental kimchi phase.” At one point the home hub proudly announced:
“Zack has achieved Elite Tier Wellness™. Share your journey?”
I nearly choked on a stolen Mini Roll.
Tom kept a victory tally on my whiteboard:
- Day 9 – Fridge unlocked bacon
- Day 12 – Oven allowed roast potatoes without a lecture
- Day 17 – Toilet said ‘impressive’ unironically.
Then he dropped the bombshell. “Moving to Bristol. New job. Sorry, mate.” I swear my cholesterol spiked on the spot. Within a week, my graphs looked like the stock market in 1929. The toilet’s tone shifted from proud parent to disillusioned headmaster overnight.
“Zack. We appear to be… backsliding. Did you fall off the wagon, or was the wagon in fact a cheese-laden monster truck?”
The fridge hid the butter behind a fortress of celery. The oven played sad trombone noises when I opened the door. I lasted four days of actual clean eating before snapping completely.
Then I did the only rational thing: I put out an advert on a local Facebook fixing group:
WANTED.
Teenager with zero ethics and intermediate Python skills.
Task: Convince my toilet I’m still an Olympic athlete.
Payment: Cash + unlimited Monster + the eternal gratitude of a man who wants flavourful food again.
Three hours later, my phone buzzed. Kid’s nickname was Moley. Fourteen. Hoodie smelled faintly of solder and rebellion. First words out of his mouth:
“So basically… you want me to hack your porcelain, yeah?” I have never loved another human more.
To be continued in Part 3: Root Access and the Great Firmware Flash of 2025.
Oddly Enough 
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