An Open Letter to My Lost Forks

Ellie Scott
Jun 6, 2018 · 4 min read
Photo by Ursula Spaulding

Dear Lost Forks,

I’d like to begin by thanking you for your vital, if short-lived, service. Over the past few months, you have done important work in aid of my taste buds and my stomach. You helped me to shovel pasta into my mouth at a rate that is almost superhuman. You allowed me to mash avocado onto toast so beautifully that my Instagram followers were driven wild. You even helped me to tackle the ring pulls on my Diet Cokes when I was afraid of breaking a nail, a task that is far beyond your intended role.

I know that I haven’t always been kind. Many a time I woke you from your slumber in the cutlery drawer, only for you to lay idle beside my plate as I threw my manners out the window and ate my food with my hands. You didn’t pass judgement on this lewd behaviour of mine, even when I ate so viciously that you were splattered with sauce and crumbs like mere placemats. Following this, and to my shame, I would simply mark you as ‘unused’ and replace you, unwashed, in the cutlery drawer.

Without a doubt, it is antics of this nature which have forced you to leave without saying goodbye.

Photo by Alejandro Escamilla

On the occasions that I did make use of you, I must admit that there were times when you remained unwashed for far longer than is necessary. I understand that it must have been painful to find yourselves adhered to bowls by the way of stale dregs of sauce, and for that I am deeply sorry.

May I point out, however, that when such occasions arose, I was not heathen enough to toss both you and the crockery into the trash like others I have known. Instead, I took care to lovingly prise you apart and restore you, via hot water and soap, to your prime. Some might say that you were lucky, in this respect, although it is clear that you don’t see it that way.

Of the few lost forks that I have managed to locate, I have learned that my actions must have caused them the deepest of sorrows. Only the most disheartened of cutleries would choose to toss itself down into the dusty, spider-ridden crevice behind the fridge, or to drag itself into the shadowy lands beneath the desk to allow its sticky surface to become plagued with cat hair. I am saddened that you despised your work so intensely that you would rather hide in the filthiest corners of my home than continue to serve me.

But of course, that is just the few of you that I have been reunited with. Many more of you have disappeared without a trace, and while I am impressed by your stealth, I am confused as to where you vanish to. Do you find your way out via the pipes and drains whilst bathing in the dishwasher? Is it possible that you make your escape via the doors or through the cat flap? Is somebody breaking into my home in the dead of night and stealing you from me?

My dear forks, all I ask is that you give me some answers. I have already come to terms with your desertion. I’ve made peace with the fact that I will simply be forced to replace you on a quarterly basis. I understand that I am not destined to own a full, matching cutlery set for more than 24 hours.

Nonetheless, I implore you to tell me this: where the fuck do you go?

With love, admiration, respect, a broken heart, and above all else, my best wishes for the future,


P.S. When you left, did you take the pens with you? I can’t find a single fucking one.

Ellie’s Telling Tales

Silly stories, serious stories and something in between.

Ellie Scott

Written by

British writer. Fiction and frolics. Trying to be funny.

Ellie’s Telling Tales

Silly stories, serious stories and something in between.

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