A minute ago, I was eating some hot butter-slathered toast. I was basking in the general sense of contentedness and that everything-is-alright-with-the-world-ness that comes from a good piece of toast.

But then I wondered if I would still enjoy toast if it was complicated to make.

This struck me as an important question.

Did I love the toast or its convenience?

If I really loved it, then I would love it under all circumstances, but I've got a nagging sense that if I had to go to any sort of effort at all, I would cut toast without a backward glance.

So this sent me into a toast related quandary. Because I may have been kidding myself about loving toast, when I don't love it at all. I just like the convenience and I am, in fact, using the toast. I'm not committed to it all. I'm the Abramovich to toast's Mourinho.

I have to conclude that I don't like toast at all. It's just there.

The scary thing is, that won't be drug induced. He's clearly been working too hard.

I think you just love toast - it is delicious. Only the volume is related to convenience...

But you went and bought a toaster. And bread. And butter. You made it convenient. You obviously thought at some point you'd be wanting toast and prepared for it. I can see at least some love for toast in those actions. The flame still flickers.

Very true, or just eat butter?