I am addicted to carbohydrates. I think they are the greatest invention since, well, sliced bread. And I can sing paeans of praise for toast. Nothing kick starts my mornings like a cup of freshly brewed java and whole wheat toast with Marmite. Because I love it so much I often make it my night-time meal as well.

But this is not a column about carbs and their consumption. I refuse to enter the debate about whether they are evil or not. Or whether they make you fat. Or that their inherent fibre is also their redemption. And yet, I am giving up toast. Simply because I have lost the battle to my toaster. And since I am only human, I know I cannot get the better of a machine.

For the last fortnight I have been raging at my Machiavellian machine — complete with space-age technology — to prevent it from either burning my toast or popping it completely undone. I have tried to time it, rotate the slice of bread and even change my brand but slice after slice I get this strange combination of charred wheat and soggy bread. It seems I am not alone. I was at a dinner party last weekend when the conversation turned to appliances and we all realised that we were toast.

Every single person in that room was suffering from the same problem and we had all recently upgraded to fancy international brand toasters that had promised us morning glory.

... contd.