The wooden shelves of the wine store immediately disintegrated with the heat of the blast. The rows and rows of bottles tumbled and fell upon each other in mounds of shattered shards, the liquids within boiling and leaving sticky residues that turned to black tar and then dust. The hard glass wilted into liquid, molten blobs of green and amber slithering over each other before coalescing into translucent blobs.

Three days ago I met a worm. It was a sunny Tuesday afternoon and I was tending to my peas in the garden.

“One day I will open you, my darlings,” I said to the peas, who were dressed up all warm swimming in brine and neatly arranged in their cans. I heard a murmur of excitement. “But not today!” The peas squealed with disappointment. But this was nothing new. I told them this every day. Our little ritual.

As I was wiping my spectacles on my sleeve, I heard a little voice from behind my left foot. “Excuse me, Robert,” it said. I looked around to see who was there. Nobody. “Robert, I’m down here!” and sure enough, when I crouched down and twisted my body all the way round, I saw him. The little worm.

“Hello,” I replied, with a cautious curiosity, “Can I help you?”

“When are you going to open your peas? We’ve all been wondering.”

I looked around to see if he had company. I couldn’t see anyone. “Who’s ‘we’?”

“Me and my friends.”

“What friends?”

“My friends who live underground. When are you going to open your peas?”

“They’re not ready yet. It isn’t the season.”

The worm sighed, and headed back under the soil, and I haven’t seen him since.

Erica stepped back out of the road and back onto the pavement. The void that she vacated immediately got sliced by a red Volkswagen Beetle, probably speeding, and too close to the curb. Hazel grabbed Erica’s hand and stared at her. But Erica didn’t look at her, not yet.

“Erica!” OK now she looked.

“What?”

Hazel went “pfft”, sweating slightly now.

“Oh yes a Volkswagen Beetle. You don’t see a lot of those these days!”

“No….,” the light turned green. Little green walking man.

“Especially not red ones!”

I rushed up the stairs with an idea in my head.

“Better write this down,” said I.

“No, no, no,” do it in the morning, said me.

“But then I’ll forget it, as usual,” said I.

“But you’re tired. Do it later.” It’s true. I was tired. I am.

“I think I have to start writing these things when they come into my head,” I replied. To myself. “Because I always forget them and then they disappear.”

This wasn’t the thing that I wanted to write down. This thing, here. I’m not really sure what it was, actually. Because there were the stairs, and the letter box, and the birthday card, and the sound of the keys jangling loosely in the door and falling into a neat pile in the bowl on the side table. And so another little idea retreated back under the surface, leaving just a little ripple.

I don’t know how to catch them. I need a net, or something.

isn’t it amazing

how you can split

a sentence over multiple lines

and suddenly everyone thinks

you’re a poet

The man plonks his Tesco bag down onto the floor in front of the cupboard. A jar of pesto makes a clink as it kisses the tiles through the polythene. The front door is still open and a breeze carries in the pickup-time chatter from the school across the street.

The cat rubs its back against against the edge of the chaise longue, and meows, curiously, as if to say, “you’re home early”. It is holding its tail high, in the shape of a question mark.

The man does not respond, for he does not speak cat.

The shipment arrived on a low crate with small wheels. Five wide boxes stacked high and inelegantly wrapped in red plastic. You signed your name on the line and took them inside.

The other day I woke up in 1983. I was standing in a little green kiosk. That’s how I knew. The newspapers said 1983 on them. I gave the woman behind the counter 5 francs and she gave me one back, and I said merci, and she laughed.

The sirens sounded the same and so did the rain.

I shuffled across Pont de la Tournelle. Wrong shoes for this weather. The sky in the distance over Notre Dame was striped red and blue and yellow, and marbled with grey and black cloud. I reached for my phone to take a photo, but all I found in my pocket was a slightly damp kleenex.

I didn’t know what else to do, so I just… sort of… stood and looked at it. Up there. Throbbing. Fizzing. Undulating. Calm.

And you know what?

It looked right back.

The brick just to the right of the doorbell is mottled with three different colours of clay. It’s rough and if you look closely it glimmers with little jumbled up crystals. And there is a smattering of algae and a small crack that forks twice.

Let’s reincarnate.

We could be trees! Maybe standing next to each other in a nice forest. Just hanging out. No drama. Just treeing. You next to me and me next to you.

Maybe that’s us there! We look well. Tall. Barky.

But… what if we miss? What if we’re trees, but… I’m over here and you’re over there? It’s not always easy to put a tree in the right place… let alone two. And trees can’t just get up and walk over to each other. They are too lazy.

Maybe I’d shuffle over bit by bit over the course of a hundred years. Or if that doesn’t work I’d ask a squirrel to go check you’re safe and happy from time to time.