I turn past the blue house. Dusky summer’s day, overcast sky, taste of yesterday’s rain mixed with runner’s labour on my teeth. A faint synthetic flavour strokes my nose.

I turn past the red house. Concentric irridiscent circles pattern the puddles. I hear a scrape and a woosh, as the far wall catches the shadow of a grainy cloud.

I turn past the yellow house. The scent of industry billows black and factory fresh. I see a figure of flame beside the benches, a grey backpack, six empty Fosters tins, and a gas canister by his feet. I watch him flail longer than I should, immobilised by surprise and guiltily captivated by the rhythm of his dance.

My flat is ten metres away. In the cupboard under the stairs by the door is a fire extinguisher. I think to put him out. I could make it. I clutch the key, the green string draped across my palm. And I wonder whether this man wants saving, moreover if he could take the pain, the scars. And I decide it’s not my place.

I turn past the green house.

She carves a sugar horse in the yard and waits for the rain. It takes about a day: she’s a quick worker. It’s made from that sweet fondant, they same one they use to make those little pink and white mice, which the children guzzle before school like little sugar kittens, as their cheeks get fat and their whiskers pop. It is dusk by the time she finishes; the mare is roughly life-size, standing, with her head bowed slightly and pointed to the left, looking behind. She sets herself down on her garden chair, stirs a cube into her tea, and looks to the sky.

You have a tiny pimple on your face. Really nothing at all. Just diagonally to the side of the crease of your lips. I notice there’s a freckle due North of it. That’s pleasing, I think. But I choose not to tell you, because, well, who wants to be told they have a pimple?

After lunch we’re taking the boat out to the islands. You are cradling your rucksack on your front like a kangaroo with a baby. The red plastic seats are covered in sea spray. You turn from gazing over the water. I can’t see your eyes, you’re wearing those reflective sunglasses. They’re all the rage at the moment. But that doesn’t matter to you. You turn to ask me about something. But I don’t listen, because at this point I notice the other two freckles, the mirror image of your freckle-pimple pair. A perfect square. It is compelling to me. You are geometry. You are truth, you are order. But I choose not to tell you. Because, well, who wants to be told they have a pimple?

Brittle earth crumbles across our damp, milky paws. It clouds and carresses our faces, makes them water and waiver, and I catch your eye as it trips, and I cradle it in my gaze, and I stand it gently back down on the ground, and dust it down.

Hop, hop, hop, hopped the pebble down the hill.

Stop he couldn’t: had he tried he’d just be hopping, still!

“Good morning little rolling stone!” A blue tit called with cheer.

“And to you and yours my friend!” squealed pebble, loud and clear.

He pondered as he tumbled round, and shattered into sand,

“I’d rather graze my pebble knees than ask a helping hand!”

She wheeled backwards to double check the door, pushing with her toes and wobbling awkwardly across the tarmac. It was locked. Good. She pushed off again and made her way down through the aisle left by parked cars, each mounted on and tipped slightly away from the pavement, as if curtsying to her procession. She passed the milkman, doing his rounds. He didn’t see her at first through the morning fog, but as he recognised her he gave a nod and a wintry smile. A final farewell, perhaps, for her last morning ride.

You dropped a coin on the pavement. While gathering payment for your sausage roll. You looked down to check what it was. A penny. You didn’t feel any wiser. The portly stranger before you in the queue collected his steak slice and huffed toward the station. You shuffled forward to the counter. The vendor, bearded and crumbly, did a double-take, stopped, and stared at you in profound recognition. You made your order. He nodded, slightly confused. As he fetched your order he shook his head cautiously and turned back to look at you again, squinting slightly. You were checking the news on your phone. He handed you your roll and you went on your way. He decided he must have been mistaken.

I think you dropped it too soon.

Little bee doesn’t want to work today. She wriggles groggily under her bee sheets. Her head is glued to the pillow, or, at least, weighed down with dreams, such that her little neck is too weak to lift it. Her alarm buzzes again: disdain prickles up the small of her abdomen and necessity jolts her upright. She slips on her bee slippers and gets ready for the day. “A bee gotta do what a bee gotta do”, she says to herself in the mirror, whilst brushing her proboscis. And off she pops.