Do you remember when you lost your shoe, that time? At the ice rink. They swapped your Reebok Classics for a pair of blades. You had an hour on the ice going round in circles, holding onto the side, trying not to fall over. And then we had hot dogs with mustard and crispy onions. And then we went back onto the ice, and I held your hand and took you into the middle, and you didn’t fall over, even though you insisted that you would. No chance I’ll leave here with my fingers, you said. But you did leave with your fingers. All seven of them and your two thumbs. Nothing we can do about that one you lost in the door of a fire engine when you were five. But then, when it was all over, and I was busy being proud of you for trying, not even for not falling over, just for trying, and you went to get your trainers back, they could only find one. And they looked and looked and they took you behind the counter to look yourself and you couldn’t find it. And you laughed and were kind. And they gave you your money back and a voucher for next time. You hopped all the way home.

Number 91 bus. Tottenham Lane to Whitehall. But most importantly, Kings Cross St. Pancras to HMP Pentonville. Home. Not the prison. But close.

It’s 2021 and you’ve just got off the Eurostar. You’re on the bus because you’re lazy and tired. It’s a 28 minute walk you’ve taken a hundred times but today you’d just like to sit and look at it.

There’s a green ribbon tied to the nobbly pole of the routemaster. It’s tied in a bow. There’s the remains of a meat pie on the floor and someone’s left their shopping. You peer inside. It’s some shampoo (Timotei), a big issue, and a caramac.

There was very little to see or do in the city for an outsider. There were ten streets, arranged in straight lines but overlapping at unpredictable angles, like uncooked spaghetti thrown on the floor. Or pick-up-sticks, a woman in a bar told you once. That was one of the two things to do. Not pick-up-sticks, no one played that any more. By decree, I think. You asked. No one would tell you why. No, there were two things to do: walk around and get poked with judging stares from the men and women sitting on their little stools outside their houses; and have shallow conversations with local drinkers in any of the bars that adorned every corner of the chaotic spider’s web, with the hope that one of them would finally let slip the password so you can finally find out what’s underground.

We waited for a week. To begin with. It went by pretty quickly! We had beef stroganoff on Tuesday and leftovers for the next couple of days. And went for nice runs. And had pints at the pub on Friday. And then it wasn’t ready yet, but it was pretty close, so we waited another week.

The next week we went for walks in the park and watched spring bloom. Your mum came to visit, and on Friday we went dancing. And then it wasn’t ready yet, but it was pretty close, so we waited another week.

The next week we were tired. But it was pretty close. I promised. You promised too. I made a leek pie and you painted a picture of me making it. It wasn’t a very good picture, but it’s nice to try new things! And on Friday we went to the cinema. And then… it wasn’t ready yet. And we wondered if maybe it wasn’t that close at all. But we’d come this far. So we waited another week.

A man in a tall white coat is tucking into a pretzel on a busy street corner. The man is not tall. The coat is. The man is not tall but his coat is tall, and now he has crumbs and salt from the pretzel all over his face. And all over the coat too.

You want to go over there and dust the crumbs and salt from his coat. You want to tell him, hey sir, careful with those crumbs! That’s a white coat! But obviously you don’t do that. Instead you wonder why he’s wearing such a tall coat. It’s nearly touching the floor. Maybe he used to be taller? Maybe it’s just really hard these days, to find a coat that fits. Enjoy your pretzel, street corner man.

I’d like to climb inside your stocking and just sit there for a little while as you carry me around. I’d have to make myself really small, of course. Which is hard when I’m around you because you make me feel ten feet tall. And you’re five feet exactly. Which is less. But then if I were small enough to fit into your stocking, I’d probably find it hard to get in. I could ask you! I suppose! But I don’t want to be a burden. So… I think maybe I’d suggest we go for a lovely walk, in Hampstead Heath. To that nice spot with the big tree with leaves of three different colours, where the afternoon light makes it look like a Rowntrees Fruit Pastille ice lolly. And I’d walk us through some spikey undergrowth and, oh no! oh dear, look darling I’ve laddered my tights. But it’s okay because a ladder is just what I wanted. So then I’d shrink myself down, and climb up that little ladder, and get in and nuzzle myself against your lower leg, and you’d laugh about it and carry me home.

The fumes from her nail varnish wrestled with the dull fug of stale battered cod. The blue glow from the fly zapper coloured Megan, draped across the salty countertop, with streaks of ultra violet, as she painted her fingertips some unidentifiable hue.

It’s getting dark early at the moment. It’s that time of year. Getting-dark-early time.

The sky is pretty clear and surprisingly blue. It’ll be black in about 45 minutes. Surprisingly blue and artfully faded into a kind of dusty cyan, like the background of a low-budget powerpoint presentation. There are a few clouds. They’re black on one side of the sky and white on the other.

Sarah is walking to the shops. She wants to buy eggs. She knows there’s an egg shortage. The chickens are on strike. Everyone’s on strike. No one will be upset if she comes back with nothing. They’ll get it. “Sorry everyone, the chickens are on strike,” she’ll say. “Not to worry. They ought to be better paid,” Nanna will respond.

Together we could go anywhere. If we wanted to. We could go to Paris and eat a croissant, or two. Or Rome, to lie on the floor of the Cistine chapel and look at the nice ceiling. We’d probably get in trouble with the guards, but, it might be fun to spend the night in an Italian jail with you. I’m sure if we wanted to we could go to the moon. And we could sit in the sea of tranquility and eat sandwiches. It would be expensive, probably. I’d wash dishes all year and save up if we decided it was something we really wanted to do. We could laugh at all the billionaires across the crater in their fancy shoes. They wouldn’t be having as much fun as us. Or we could just go to Tesco, hold hands in the bread aisle. And, well, buy some bread.

It’s summer but it’s not warm. Greta Thunberg is wearing a lilac scarf and ear muffs. Yes ear muffs. She’s at the newsstand buying a newspaper. She doesn’t have a smartphone. She’s got a Phillips Savvy. But she still wants to know what’s going on. She’s 38 and her hands are freezing. The newsagent recognises her and is not polite. “Thank you,” smiles Greta Thunberg. The newsagent smiles with his mouth but not his eyes. Definitely not his eyes. He preferred ice creams and panic to mittens and misery. Panic gave you something to do. Gave Greta something to do, too, to be honest. She takes her paper and brings it to a park bench. There’s a pigeon standing on the seat. “Excuse me may I sit,” says Greta. And the pigeon smiles with her mouth but not her eyes, and says, “No.”