Edwin Birch coughs up an (slightly fictionalized) autobiographical novel on Charles Babbage–inventor of the Analytical Engine, father of the Computer Age–& his diminutive friend, Jiffy:

“Hello Jiffy,” Babbage murmured, utterly bewildered and transfixed by the strange entity on his lap. “What were you doing in my throat?” he managed at last. It was a reasonable question, and it received a reasonable answer:
“I don’t know. What’s a throat?”
“It’s what you were in just now.”
“Oh. I see. I was sitting in it.”
“Ah. Why?”
Jiffy scrunched up his eyes and thought for a bit. “I don’t know” he said at last, with a bright little smile. “What’s your name, mister?”
“Babbage,” said Babbage. “Charles Babbage.”
“That’s a stupid name,” said Jiffy. “I like you. You’re a funny colour. Where are we? What’s an analytical engine?”
“What did you say?” Babbage hissed.
“I don’t know. What’s an analytical engine?”
“How… how did you…?”
“I don’t know. Is it like a spoon? Or a forest, perhaps?”