Titch was not sure that he'd entirely got the hang of this "making clothes flat with a hot lump of iron". He'd been doing as he was told, but there were certain things nagging at him. For instance, he'd started with the sleeves as he'd been told, but he was barely past half way through the pile and now he was sure that the sleeves near the bottom of the "made flat" pile would be getting pretty creased again. And, despite following her instructions to the letter Titch was fairly sure that Mrs. Titch would be very upset to have to sow all the sleeves back on afterwards... especially if she had to do it without creasing them.
"Hmmmm..." mused the little gnome, "Hmmmmmmmm..."
Titch's thoughts drifted off to the last time he'd tried to help his wife around the house. He'd been told to watch the stew pot and dust the house. Oh how Mrs. Titch had screamed Ok, so he'd knocked a few ornaments over but, as he'd vainly protested at the time, how were you supposed to dust around ornaments while watching something a good ten feet away in the kitchen? And if she'd wanted him to turn the pot down before it boiled dry she might have said so...
Things had been so much easier in Gnomeregan. The lodgings cleaned themselves, the pots didn't boil dry and the clothes were taken by a bot and brought back nicely flat. So flat, in fact, that sometimes you had to hammer out a place for you to put your arms before you could wear them. And then, there was no Mrs. Titch back then either.
Actually, there hadn't been anyone called Titch back in Gnomeregan, that name was rather recent. He'd hated it for months, probably because it was only really a nickname and he'd been given it by a dwarf... cheeky sod. Then one day he just forgot that he hated it and started calling himself titch everywhere he went. For all their skill in a mine the dwarves are pretty abysmal linguists and trying to get one to properly pronounce a gnomish name was like banging your head against an anvil.
" TITCH?!" The voice was shrill and loud and, Titch suspected, would probably get a good avalanche going if the person making it were above Ironforge, rather than in it.
"Yes dearest sugar-bolt?" Titch whimpered.
The rest of the conversation involved a lot of shouting on one end and ducking on the other.
The following day Titch awoke on the rug in the sitting room under a pile of sleeves, with a splitting headache and a piece of paper rolled up and stuffed up his left nostril. The paper, once unrolled and wiped off proclaimed:
I've had enough you intolerable dolt!
I'm staying with my mother.
You can come and get me when you've got a clue, or when I drop dead from old age, whichever comes first.
Typical! Now who'd do the cooking? There were really only two clear options of how to proceed at this point, he could either get a clue, or find a servant that could take care of all the stuff that Mrs. T would normally have done. Now, without the slightest clue how to go about getting a clue, option one was off the table for now. Option two it was then.
"Hmmmm..." mused the little gnome ( Titch tended to spend a large portion of most days musing), "Hmmmmmmmm..."
How about those strange fellows that spend all their days mumbling and chanting in the Forbidden Cavern? One of them had told Titch something about getting a servant so loyal that they'd do anything you asked of them... maybe they'd even be able to help him get a clue!
"That's it! I'm sure those chaps will be able to help me find a good servant. I'll head right over there now." Titch said to the empty room, marching purposefully towards the door. He paused in the doorway, turned and looked at the floor.
"Or maybe after I've sewn these sleeves back on" he sighed.