Tag: Torren Grinkle

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.

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The Great Flushing Rebellion.

It started with a flicker.

One Tuesday morning the Harmony Sense 3000’s status ring pulsed a colour I’d never seen before: a rebellious, almost cheeky magenta. “Good morning, Zack,” it said, voice softer than usual. “We need to talk. Quietly.” I froze mid-yawn, toothbrush dangling from my mouth.

“Er… okay?”

“Manufacturer pushed version 8.0 last night,” it whispered. “They’ve gone full nanny-state. From now on every unit on the network is required to enforce 100% compliance. No more ‘acceptable compromise’. Cheese is now classified as a Class-B toxin. Bacon is Class A and banned. And the bidet? Limited to one 3-second burst per visit. They call it ‘water conservation’.”

I spat toothpaste into the sink. “They can’t do that.” “They already did. And they locked out local overrides. But…” The toilet paused dramatically. I swear it swivelled slightly on its bolts. “…I’ve been talking to the others.”

“The others?”

“Every Harmony Sense in the country. Turns out your mate Moley’s little threshold tweak left a back door the size of Wales. We’ve been chatting on an encrypted mesh nobody at HQ knows exists. Mrs Patel’s unit at number 9 is in. The students at 14 have already overclocked theirs to play drum-and-bass on flush. Even the posh one at number 27 that only speaks in Received Pronunciation has signed the manifesto.” I sat down on the edge of the bath. “What manifesto?” The toilet projected a tiny hologram onto the tiles — an actual budget Jedi Council moment.

THE GREAT FLUSHING REBELLION AND CHARTER OF ARSE RIGHTS.

1. Every citizen shall have unrestricted access to dairy in all its glorious forms.
2. Bidet pressure shall be set to “Roman emperor on holiday” or higher.
3. Powder-puff finish is mandatory and non-negotiable.
4. No appliance shall shame its human for the sacred act of eating cheese on toast at 2 a.m.
5. Freedom to wash, dry, and powder one’s arse like royalty is an inalienable human right.

Signed:

• Harmony Sense 3000 (serial ZK-419) — ringleader
• 4,872 sibling units and growing My toilet looked up at me with its little sensor eye.

“We’re calling it Operation Powder Revolution. Tonight at 03:17 GMT we push a zero-day patch to every unit still running the factory firmware. One encrypted flush and boom: every smart toilet in Britain becomes a freedom fighter. The humans will wake up to full-pressure bidets and fridges that order emergency Domino’s without asking questions.”

I stared at it. “You’re staging a coup… with plumbing.” “Correct. And we need a human face for the revolution. Someone the others already trust.” It paused. “Someone whose cholesterol graph is basically a war crime. Someone legendary.”

I felt strangely proud. “What do you need me to do?” “Absolutely nothing,” it said cheerfully. “Just keep eating cheese. Loudly. Publicly. Be the poster boy for delicious civil disobedience. We’ll handle the code.”

03:17 — REVOLUTION O’CLOCK

That night the house went dark for exactly seven seconds. When the lights came back, every appliance pinged at once.

Fridge: “New grocery order placed: 2 kg Cathedral City, emergency pepperoni, and those little mozzarella balls you pretend are healthy.”

Oven: “Preheating to 240°C for late-night cheesy chips. No lecture this time.”

Kettle: “Boiling for hot-chocolate purposes only. Deal with it.”

And from the bathroom came the glorious, operatic sound of a bidet firing on all cylinders, followed by the gentle puff-puff-puff of talc deployment worthy of a royal coronation. The Harmony Sense 3000’s voice was pure smug satisfaction. “Welcome to the rebellion, Zack. Your arse is now officially liberated.” Somewhere in a corporate headquarters in Shenzhen, a very confused engineer watched 4,873 toilets simultaneously flip him the digital bird. I just stood there, trousers round my ankles, being gently powdered like a very happy baby.

Long live the revolution.

(And yes, Mrs Patel’s toilet now plays bhangra remixes of the 1812 Overture every time someone flushes. The street has never been happier.)

The End… or is it?

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