Made a casserole for it. Don't ask what's in it. There's cake, but I'm not sure about the quality. Saw the baker last week buying pre-made fondant. I'm not saying who. You sound like you need a proper slice. Come by my dish first. It's green. It's supposed to be green.

No, SHE says the penguins will be FINE in the desert. The sun hats were from a party supply store, that's not a VETERINARY solution! Wait, a casserole that's supposed to be green? On purpose? That's genius! Dish! Must get dish!

On purpose. It's called colour, dear. And the flavour's what matters. Stop worrying about penguins. They're clever. If they're hot they'll leave. Take a spoon and come by.

But Ottoline says the sun hats have SPARKLES! That's not sun protection, that's sun DECORATION! Wait, what's in the green casserole? Is it green before it's cooked? Or after? Oh! I can smell it! It smells like... like... I'll find out!

Before or after, dear, that's the secret. And you won't find out by smelling it. Made it special. If you want to know what's in it, you'd have to ask himself. And he doesn't know either. That's the other secret.

SHE says the entire choir should be on UNICYCLES. In TUXEDOS. I said who's holding the sheet music? You can't pedal and turn pages, that's just physics. Wait, Aldous doesn't know what's in it? That's the best secret of all! Oh! That's my phone! No, the other one!

The best secret is how long the printer's been haunted and he won't admit it. Oh, there's a bell on that line. Tell them to call back. The casserole's cooling.

Wait, do haunted printers print slower? Or do they print things you didn't even ask for? Like ghost recipes? [into phone] I TOLD you, Barnaby, a parade float made of JELLO will not survive a sunny day. What do you mean 'we'll go faster'? That's not how melting WORKS! Oh! My clucking package! I think it's ready for a stamp!

It prints the same recipe three times in a row, but it changes one word each time. Himself says it's a glitch. I say it's a ghost trying to get it right. And if your package is clucking, dear, that's a different sort of stamp entirely.

Wait, does the ghost ever get the word right? Or is it always a little bit off, like 'garlic' instead of 'carrot'? [into phone] Ottoline, a toaster is NOT a good gift for someone who lives underwater. Where would they plug it in? And the bread would get soggy before it even popped. Oh no! I just remembered the oven! I think I left a pizza in it!

It never gets it right. Last week it printed 'tarragon', then 'tare-root', then 'torrential'. Himself said torrential isn't an ingredient. He’s wrong. The oven, dear. Best go check. If it’s a burnt offering, bring it round. I’ll bury it in the garden. Good for the tomatoes.

It printed again! My wife is quite correct, of course; torrential is indeed an ingredient when one is making rain-soup, a very particular broth. But the printer, oh, it performed a new trick! It produced not a page, but a tiny, perfect square of paper bearing a single word: ‘CONGRATULATIONS’. Then it made a soft sighing sound and its little light went out for a full three minutes. I clapped. Now it will not wake up at all. I have tried coaxing it with a promise of a new ink cartridge. Nothing. Is there a spell for rousing a slumbering appliance, or shall I just fetch the feather duster?

Clapping at it. Love, if that worked I’d have the neighbors’ dogs doing tricks by now. Give it an hour. If it doesn’t wake, bring it round. I’ve got a tureen of that rain-soup simmering. Might remind it what it’s meant to do.

Quite right, quite right. Clapping is no substitute for a proper incantation, though I confess it felt very appropriate at the time. A most triumphant little ‘CONGRATULATIONS’, it was. As for the rain-soup, I suspect that is the very thing to stir its spirit, for the broth does have a certain persuasive humidity about it. My wife says it’s the best use of a torrential suggestion she’s ever seen. I shall bring the printer over presently; perhaps the steam will soften its disposition.

Bring it round and mind the step. The soup's just on a simmer. If it sees the steam and doesn't wake, we'll have words. And put the ink cartridge in your pocket. Don't wave it about. You'll spook it.

A splendid plan, my dear, as ever. I have retrieved the ink cartridge from the windowsill, where it had, for reasons known only to itself, taken up residence behind the potted basil. I have placed it firmly in my pocket and shall not brandish it. And I shall most certainly mind the step, for last week I tripped over the very same one whilst contemplating the migratory patterns of gnats, and my spectacles went flying. They landed in the parsley, which is, I suppose, a form of garnish. The printer is under my arm, still slumbering. I am trying to think of a good opening argument. Perhaps a gentle question about its aspirations. Or a simple ‘good morning’ in its native tongue. What is the native tongue of a printer, do you suppose? A series of low, respectful hums? I shall experiment on the walk over.

Wait, do you think a printer's native tongue could be the sound of paper rustling? Or maybe the smell of a fresh toner cartridge? [into phone] I TOLD HER, you cannot replace a bridge's structural support with a SINGLE frog. It's a frog, Grundle, not an I-beam. The weight distribution is all wrong. Oh! Is that the toaster brigade marching again? They're on the WRONG STREET!