Kevin was born in the butchers’ shop at 4:29pm, next to a lamb shank. That’s why they named him Kevin (that was also the lamb’s name).

For his eleventh birthday, Kevin asked the birthday ghost for a steam train. The birthday ghost didn’t give him a steam train. Instead, the birthday ghost chopped off his hands and feet as punishment for making unreasonable requests.

For his fifteenth Christmas, Kevin asked the Christmas lobster for his hands and feet back. It had been a difficult couple of years. The Christmas lobster was more sympathetic than the birthday ghost. “Kevin, I’ll try my best,” said the Christmas lobster, “but the birthday ghost is not known for being easy to reason with.” Nevertheless, the Christmas lobster tried. He sashayed to the birthday ghost’s house, and said “Excuse me, birthday ghost, might I request a small favour?” The birthday ghost came to the door and looked at the Christmas lobster sternly. He was wearing Kevin’s hands and feet. “No.” said the birthday ghost. And that was that.

You scrape the back of my leg with your toenail. “Ouch,” I say.

There’s a cardboard cutout of David Milliband on the floor. He’s bent at the knee, as though he were begging us for mercy. There’s a pair of tights across his brow, and an empty bottle of shiraz beside him. The contents are mostly soaked into the six-week old carpet. I should be annoyed.

“He was always the better brother,” you say, “I wish he’d won.” I pinch your ear in agreement.

The window is slightly open. A bee arrives. I scrape the back of your leg with my toenail. “Ouch”, you say.

The bee comes to rest on the bedside table. It gives me a sad, worried look.

A little fly landed on the end of my nose. “Good day, little fly,” I said, “what have you been up to today?”

The fly cleared her little throat, and with a squeak and a buzz, she piped “Hello there friend! Not much at all! Just living the fly life! Hopping from shit to shit and filling my little tummy!”

“That’s cute, little fly!” I replied, with a friendly wink. “Did you wash your little feet?”

“Wash my little feet? Oh, friend, I wish I could! For I do love shit, but it sure does give you sticky toes! And, you see, I cannot afford soap!”

“That’s a shame little fly, I shall give you a job, and pay you three pounds an hour!”

“Three pounds an hour!”

“Tell me little fly, do you have any special skills?”

“Why yes, friend, I am an expert in tax law! And I have found it most difficult to get a job in this difficult economic climate! But—”

“Perfect, little fly, I need someone to look over my tax returns! You’re hired!”

“But, friend, three pounds an hour is far less than minimum wage, and although I am most grateful—”

Squish.

We forgot to finish the eggs before we went away on holiday. We left them in the fridge and simply left and locked the door.

Twenty days in Bali.

Our flight touched down at 4AM at Heathrow terminal five. Sunburnt and satisified, we caught an Uber home.

Bleary eyed and ready for bed we dragged our cases in. I stumbled past the piles of post and empty kitchen bin.

Hayley was thirsty. She opened the refrigerator door.

Six little chicks huddled by a swollen petit-filous. They’d made igloos out of Lurpak, and wore avocado coats. Hats and gloves of watercress and bedding of rolled oats. Open-beaked into the light they stared all starry-eyed. Hayley poured her apple juice, then closed the door and sighed. “Oops”.

“Hello,” said the horse, slightly nervously.

Carol straightened herself up, put on her best smile, and turned around. “Oh… hello..?” She wavered.

“It’s me, Paul,” said the horse, “from Hinge.” His consonants were slightly muffled, owing to the pink rose wedged between his teeth. He was wearing a blue bow tie and trousers. He wore an earnest and endearing smile across his big, horse-shaped head.

“Paul..?” asked Carol, tenatively. He didn’t look much like his profile picture. “You look… different.”

“Well, nor do you!”

Bashfully, Carol ran her flipper through her hair.

The King and Queen of the Moon were having a ball. Everyone was invited, except Neil. “Neil ruins everything,” said the Queen, “we simply can’t have him at our ball. He’ll show off and break something. And he’ll probably sweat on everybody. Yuck.”

“Hmmm I suppose you’re right, darling,” replied the King. “But if we don’t invite Neil we can’t invite Edwin or Michael either, they’ll let the cat out of the bag.” The Queen agreed.

But Neil caught wind of this, and decided to go to the ball anyway. So on the night of the ball, he got his party suit on, grabbed his two mates, and flew up to greet the King and Queen. He was going to show them just how much fun he could be. He’s  not bitter. He’s really just a nice guy that wants everyone to have a nice time.

Neil, Edwin, and Michael arrived. No one was there.

The Queen, looking up smugly from her holiday palace in Tenerife, grabbed another canapé and sipped her champers.

I tasted you in a glass of rosé wine. Cold, pink and crisp. Cheaper than Beaujolais, and less likely to stain. I felt you dribble down the back of my throat, just like you used to. I liked it. I liked you. I cut my toe on one of your thoughts, sharp, glassy, covered in dirt, lying on the bark in a children’s playground. But it wasn’t you. You’d have told me to put my shoes on. I miss the way your hopes shredded the sides of my mouth when I bit down on them. Colourful and jagged and brittle. I made a mosaic from them and put it in my fridge, next to the apple pie. That’s you too. I wish I could cover you in custard again. You were everything else and nothing at all, my drop of almond milk, little blue bluebird, box of soap, mustard spoon. I hope I see you soon.

16:43

I check in the gas box for a key. There’s nothing there. I ferret around through the cobwebs and dusty pipes for one. Nothing. I get the triangular meter key from my case and open up the electrics box. Nope. She forgot to leave one out for me. I message her. She is embarrassed. She’ll be back.

17:08

I have been waiting for a little while and have read a good chunk of my book. I decide to call my parents and talk about life.

18:23

My parents know how to keep talking. Or at least my mother does. It’s one of her most deadly skills. After talking at length with her and briefly with my dad, who had taken a short break from painting the door (a base white so that it could be later painted over in a slightly less white – he said he was too old for exciting colours), we hang up.

18:38

I head to the pub round the corner for a pint and a meal. It’s an expensive luxury. The man on the long bench next to me has a pint and a glass of wine in front of him. I wonder if they’re both for him, or if he’s waiting for someone. I order a ratatouille.

18:46

A pretty North American girl sits nearby. She waves her hands in the air. I look at her with bemusement. “Do you feel a draft?” she asks. I wave my hands too. “I didn’t, but I do now” I reply. She goes to sit somewhere else. I think she finds me stern. The two-drink man heads to the toilet with now nearly-empty wine glass. They were both for him.

I stayed up all night watching videos of plane crashes. They’re allowed on YouTube. So long as it’s clean and gore-free, all kinds of sadistic voyeurism can be uploaded.

There was one where a 747 starts to fall near a motorway. It tumbles through the sky like a plastic figurine thrown by a giant toddler. It begins to right itself almost just in time, I guess 20 meters off the ground. It’s too late. The plane neatly disintegrates into a bloom of lurid orange flame. I guess everyone died. I took a sip of my chocolate milk.

I don’t believe in aircraft. It’s the single greatest troll ever done. Giant metal birds clinging to the sky. Someone’s been having us on. I’m sure of it. It’s mad. It doesn’t make any sense. And so I guess they can’t be real people, on real holidays, or real business trips, or visiting real parents or real lovers, or serving real overpriced sandwiches and inadequate measures of wine and spirits in real tiny plastic bottles, or accompanying their cello in a real spare seat, or watching endless first episodes of real mediocre sitcoms, or reading in-flight magazines, and dreaming of where to go next. They just can’t be real people  because it’s too mad. I take another sip of my chocolate milk.

The beach was empty but for a few scurrying crabs. They hurried back towards the sea as Phela placed her footsteps, leaving little dry prints that quickly refilled with seawater.

It was about half past four, probably. She’d been here long enough that she actually didn’t really know, but the sun had begun to start her descent to the horizon and she thought it would probably be true. She hadn’t thought about time in a while. There were no clocks here, no calendars, just morning, day and night. She thought about how this could be any time at all, at any point in history, and she, the observer, wouldn’t know. There were no buildings to be seen, no floating drinks cans, no swimsuits, sandals, or drones. No cameras, phones, prophets, books, atomisers, sky screws, telangels. No wars, no stone soldiers, no dodos, no dictators, no refugees, no walls, no Tesco. Just Phela, the crabs, and the sea. This could be any time at all.