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.

The age of potatoes, they called it now. There were only a few people left from that time. Even fewer who remembered what they tasted like.

Grandchildren would sit and listen politely as their elders blabbered on, teary eyed, about chips and crisps and waffles and smiley faces. The kids thought they understood, but they didn’t. Really there was nothing now to compare it to. How can you explain the feeling of a triple-cooked chunk, dipped in mayo and doused in salt, slipping down your gullet. And the versatility! Mash! Crinkle cut! Curly fries! Dauphinoise! No, they’d never get it. The age of potatoes was over.

Becky likes to go to McDonald’s and pick up the wrong order.

Right now she’s sitting on the edge of the canal, tucking into her nugs. She’s got a diet coke on the go and a dime bar McFlurry to look forward to.

So far she hasn’t been caught. They never ask for the receipt. And most people aren’t paying attention until it’s too late.

She can’t go back too many times. People will start to suspect.

But for now she’s got her nuggets. They ordered three sauces, whoever it was. Twelve nugs. Four nuggies per dip. People don’t know how good they’ve got it.

A swan swims up to her.

“Cool nugs you got there Beck,” says the swan.

Becky knows not to trust swans. But she’s polite. She answers with a neutral question, changing the subject, “Hey Callum, did you see the match last night? Ducks must’ve been practising.”

Last night the geese and the ducks went head to head in an 11-a-side. No one expected the ducks to win. They’ll be playing the swans tomorrow.

A ghost was trying to write a letter to its landlord. But it didn’t know where to begin. Practical matters aside — how to hold a pen? the ghost could just about wiggle a book on a shelf and flicker a light, let alone manoeuvre a writing implement; where to buy paper? not even nice writing paper, a piece of A4 would do, or one of those ones from old printers with the holes in the side — leaving those practical matters aside, the ghost just didn’t know how to word it. Sorry Mrs Peterson, I cannot pay the rent this month, I’m too DEAD seemed a bit direct. But what else could you write! It was just all quite a lot. So the ghost decided to wiggle a few books, when it could, and watch the Petersons from the corner, hoping that they’d soon smell the corpse, and be able to get on with finding a new tenant.

Wait until dark. Give yourself a good scrub beforehand. Everything you think you don’t need to wash, wash it twice. Everything you think you need to wash, wash it four times. With a selection of different soaps. Just to be sure. Put on clean clothes. New, if possible. If possible, new and unworn, but washed once. But make sure they’re dry. Go somewhere high up. Ideally pick a day when the sky is clear, but don’t wait too long. A little spritz of perfume wouldn’t be unappreciated. Just make sure it’s not too musky. Something fruity and floral. Like that Britney Spears one. What was it? Cosmic Radiance. Yes, they’ll like that.

Ray’s mother died in 2004.

She was trampled to death by cows, who were startled by fireworks in the next field over from a wedding that she was attending.

She’d been canoodling in the long grass with Sarah. Sarah didn’t die but she lost an arm. Who knew you could lose an arm to a cow? A crocodile would have been cooler.

Dad and Sarah don’t talk much. He insists that it was all above board. That they could each snog whoever they wanted. It was a modern relationship; or back to the olden days, depending on how you looked at it. Ray didn’t get it. But Ray didn’t get a lot of things.