In the middle of a large desert (we say the middle: there is nothing on the horizon, it is purely flat, so who is to know?), at the top of a poplar tree (yes, there are poplar trees in the desert, populus euphratica), stands a little mouse, surveying his environment (the little mouse holds a pair of binoculars in his little paws — who makes binoculars for mice? I don’t know). He can’t remember for the life of him which direction he has come from (he hasn’t the wits to use the sun as a compass). He nudges his friend, the vole, to stop annotating his story with pedantic interjections (sorry, says the vole). He rubs his aching head. He needs to stop drinking.

I glanced out of the plane window and into the rising sun, it dazzled me. I remembered my mother telling me that I must never look at the sun directly, for what I considered at the time to be another empty reason, designed to cement her dominance over me and satisfy her need to control and punish. She may have been right. Kaleidoscopic shards bounced around my retinas as I brought my face back into the cabin. No, I didn’t have to follow her rules any more, she was dead, and I no longer had anyone to answer to. As I accepted a glass of orange juice and a soggy croissant from the flight attendant, the purple-green splashes gradually faded from my vision . I realised I had been right all along, that this was just another of her deceptions. My sight was fine and clear.

I turned my head to the world again, and stared at the sun as hard as I could, feeling my optic nerve set alight with the fire of defiance.

It’s lunchtime.

“It’s lunchtime.” says Arthur. Not a stir of response.

“It’s lunchtime.” says Arthur. Not a stir the second time, either.

He slips out of the office, through the corridor, into the lift, down eight floors to the street, out the revolving doors, three lefts to the park. He purchases a falafel and halloumi wrap from a street vendor.

“Nice day, isn’t it!” he announces to the purveyor of chickpea-based fried lunch. It isn’t a nice day, that’s just what people say. The falafel lady looks at him, but doesn’t respond. He takes his meal, picks a chilled can of Fanta Icy Lemon from his knapsack (it’s cheaper in a multipack), and sits alone on a bench in the corner park.

“Nice day, isn’t it!” he says to the pigeons. They don’t respond either, but that’s fine, because they are pigeons. The clock strikes 12:05 and the square springs to life again. The five-minute respectful silence is over, and Arthur wishes he hadn’t been such a dick about it.

It is Gary’s first day at the office. He thought it was about time he made something of himself, so he decided to get his act together, put on a suit, and a tie, do an interview, and get a job. He got twenty rejections before this, Ellis & Partners. He is a grasshopper, but, in his own words “knows loads about contract law”. He scampers between the open automatic doors, then, realising that his scamper is not very business-like, amends it to a tall saunter. He hopes that they will accept him, for surely it is unusual for a grasshopper to get a job in a law firm. He wends his way to the third floor office, and says “Hello everybody, I am Gary!” Nobody hears him, because he is really tiny.

“The sea is more viscous than usual,” remarked Helen, as she retracted her probing toe.

“Must be something to do with the jelly shower.” replied Karen.

“The jelly shower?”

“Yes, the jelly shower?”

“The jelly shower?”

“Yes, last week Greg and I got woken up by the sound of a meteor shower, it was so bright and so loud. We had to go outside to look at it. It smelled of strawberry. A piece fell just in front of our feet. It looked like jelly, so Greg checked. It was jelly. Just loads of strawberry jelly, everywhere.”

“Why was jelly falling from the sky?” questioned Helen.

“I think it has something to do with God.” Karen assured her.

“Oh.” replied Helen, disappointed.

I met a man three days ago. He said to me, “Eliza, I’m from the future.” I said, “Great tactic, do you use that one often?” “No”, he said. I reached into my purse and give him a few bucks (can’t blame a guy for trying), and continued for a couple of blocks, until it clocked that he had called me by name. I marched back over. “How do you know my name?” I quizzed. “It’s on your name tag.” he replied. I looked down at my tag, sure enough. Obvious. I continued. Then I came back. “What do you mean you’re from the future?” I said. He gave me an address, a time, and a date, and ran off down the street.