She couldn’t sleep, because there were more important things to do and her brain knew it. So periodically, after a few tosses or turns, she’d whip out her Galaxy Tab 10 and ask important questions on the internet.

has anyone survived being in a dishwasher, she typed into the Google.

“Could a human sit inside a dishwasher and survive a cycle of it running? Would they be able to get out from the inside?” replied quora. Wendy Brown, former retired nurse, said:

A person inside a dishwasher would be scalded terribly by the very hot water. They might be alive when the cycle was completed, but in horrible pain and in dire need of emergency medical treatment, with a very long stay in a burn unit to follow.

That is, if they did not suffocate first, as a dishwasher is a sealed, waterproof and air-tight box, and an adult would take up a lot of space, displacing most of the air.

There is no mechanism inside a dishwasher that would allow someone locked inside it to escape.

Wendy Brown, former retired nurse

She didn’t believe Wendy Brown, of course. So she went to try to get into her dishwasher. Her dishwasher was quite big, and she was quite small. And there wasn’t much in it. She took out two plates so that she could just about get in. And she just about managed to close the door. Then she realised she had forgotten to put a Finish Powerball in. But she couldn’t open the door. Sadly, she died.

Gail weeps as he wipes the sick from her chin. He turns on the shower and helps her in. There’s some nice imperial lather shower gel on the side. He opens out her hands and pours it in. She’s shivering. The shower takes a little while to get going. But it’s getting warmer. The shower gel smells of various tropical herbs and berries that may or may not have been invented by the Imperial Lather marketing team. What would be the harm? A little taste? No one would notice. She wretches again but nothing comes out. He fetches her a cup of cold water. Gail’s not in a good place. But he doesn’t mind. Because he still really fancies her.

Helen’s head felt tight and hot. And strange. As if there was another tongue inside it, deep inside her brain, all squished up with rusty bits of iron and out-of-season conkers that had been stored there by a squirrel, perhaps working in conjunction with a magpie with low standards. In this economy it makes sense to share. And you’ve got to make do with what you’ve got. Helen sighed and rubbed her right eye. The left eye was still trained on the sandwich counter at Tesco, where she was trying to decide between Hoisin duck wrap and cheese and onion triangles.

He has to be careful when he’s out and about.

Fortunately in the supermarkets and bars they don’t play Banghra Knights that much any more. It’s too 2003. And that wasn’t a great time for anyone, really.

If he heard it he’d zip back, uncontrollably. To who knows what time within his life. All of the steps and missteps and wonder since, erased. And he’d have to do it all again. With no memory, only a vague sense of the paths taken before.

Sometimes he fucked up. And he’d whack it on. And give it all another go. It was a good get out of jail free card. Sometimes literally.

2003 was particularly hard. Because it was always on the radio. It took him many trips back and forth, to last week and last month and last whatever to finally realise what was going on. And when he did, he got on a plane to Finland, where he hid out for six years, listening only to the wind and the water and the warblings of the Helsinkian carpenter in the flat downstairs.

A man with a woollen hat kicked a pebble at a pigeon. The pigeon wasn’t paying attention and got bashed in the eye. Serves the pigeon right. Pigeons should pay attention.

A pigeon with a woollen hat kicked a pebble at a man. The man wasn’t paying attention and got bashed in the eye. Serves the man right. Men should pay attention.

A pebble with a woollen hat kicked a man at a pigeon. The man was surprised, and the pigeon was surprised too. And angry and a bit sad. That’s twice today something’s been kicked at a pigeon. Pigeons have rights, too.

The duvet was full of crumbs but no one really minded. Slightly sticky, flakey crumbs. They could shake them off if they needed to. There was a coffee on the side table and she held another in both hands while he filled in the crossword with a black Pilot V5. A nice light climbed in through the open curtains and joined them for a cuddle.

A little red rivulet of sticky syrup wiggled its way south from the end of your nose down past your eyes and into your hair. It gathered and swirled on your fringe until it burst over into your bob like holiday water dribbling past the edge of an infinity pool into the bracken. Except no one was laughing and smiling in the sun, and you were unconscious.

It’s a particularly loud smell, the smell of dead rat.

Every now and again Phil would walk around the apartment, trying to see if he could isolate the source of the smell. He could not. Because dead rat is everywhere. And everywhere is dead rat.

He often thought of his friend, who smelled a dead rat one summer, and four weeks in saw a body bag being taken down the stairs of her apartment as she was coming back from the store. She arrived back upstairs to a fresh and clean smelling room, and initially concluded that the dead rat, with its little dead legs, must have scuttled away to move in with its dead rat family in some other apartment block. Or something. And then of course she connected the dots, and immediately gave her notice and fled across the Atlantic.

How many forks does a person need? One?

Sarah has fifteen forks in her drawer. She lives alone.

She does not often invite people to dinner. Her table only seats four, six at a push if one sits on the side table and another perches on a camping stool.

The last time she invited people to dinner, it was soup, fajitas, and magnums for dessert. She didn’t even use the forks!

Her cat doesn’t use forks.

Why do I have fifteen forks? she cries in her head. Not out loud. Outwardly, she is completely composed. Not that there was anyone around to see.

She counts out fourteen forks and puts them in the bin. Sarah is very lonely.

With both hands she held the mug still, close to her lips. And close to her knees and breasts. She was folded up in the doorway of the kitchen. Feeling warmth in her hands and on her body. The string was twirled around the handle of the cup, just like he used to do it. The deep pink drink smelled of forest fruits; it didn’t taste as good as it smelled.