Beans On Toast

 It started out as a simple craving. Just a modest, late-night craving for the undisputed king of British comfort food: **beans on toast**.

I popped a couple of slices of brown-grained bread into the toaster—properly thick-cut, naturally—and reached into the cupboard for the main event. Now, call me reckless, call me a culinary pioneer, but instead of the usual pan, I tipped my tin of baked beans straight into a microwave-proof saucepan made of **high-durable plastic**.

*Spoiler alert: It wasn't microwave-proof.*

I punched in the standard three-minute blitz and pressed start. Almost immediately, things took a turn for the dramatic. Sparks resembling miniature, furious lightning bolts began zigzagging across the cavity like a disgruntled rave in a Tupperware box, and the whole contraption started heating up like the surface of the sun. Before I could even register the words *"Health and Safety,"* there was an almighty bang that felt suspiciously like a direct hit from a rogue missile, and I was launched gracefully across the kitchen, landing face-first in the recycling bin.

At my inquest, the coroner chalked it up to **death by misadventure**. My family merely sighed, muttering that I always did lack common sense in the kitchen, before divvying up my record collection.

And so, here I am—doomed to haunt my humble abode for all eternity. Honestly? It has its perks. I don't have to pay council tax anymore, and my energy bills are remarkably low. But a ghost’s gotta keep busy, so I've developed a bit of a routine:

 * **The Classic Moan:** I like to put on the odd dramatic groan in the hallway, usually right when someone’s trying to watch *Coronation Street*.

 * **The Chain Rattle:** I make sure to rattle some heavy iron chains—sourced from a local DIY store before I shuffled off this mortal coil—just to scare prospective buyers and estate agents right out of my driveway.

Every now and then, some enthusiastic paranormal investigation group turns up with their EMF readers, night-vision goggles, and thermal cameras, whispering breathlessly about *residual energy* and *cold spots*. I just sit on top of the wardrobe, invisible and sipping imaginary tea, watching them hyperventilate over a drafty window. I reveal absolutely nothing, of course. Let them sweat.

Turns out, being a spectre has its moments. Though I still wouldn't touch the microwave