You’re tired. But it’s only 4pm.

Pull yourself together, you say to yourself.

You rub your entire face hard with your hands. Your palms knead your cheeks into your teeth, pulling them over your lower jaw and away from your eyelids. Your thumbs massage your cheek bones and the pointy bits of your ears. Your fingers scrape your brow into your eye sockets. It’s dark in here.  You see splashes of purple and green. Concentric pulsating tie-dye rings.

You squeeze your fingers harder. Your skull begins to break under the pressure, like a chocolate egg on Easter morning. The soft red yolk seeps out between your phalanges as the bones cave in.

That’s better, you say to yourself.

You adopted a pair of ravens. Well, you adopted a pair of raven chicks. Well, you found them in a nest, looking a bit confused. They were fluffy little black lumps. You named them Sarah and Paul. They like you. You feed them. They ride on your shoulders as you’re out buying fish and chips or posting a letter. People say “That’s a nice pair of crows!” But they’re not crows. They’re ravens. “They’re ravens.” You say. And then their faces contract in fear and disgust. And you feel sad because ravens are misunderstood. And to make you feel better, Paul and Sarah fly after the offender and take out an eye each with their sharpened graphite beaks.

There’s an old unfinished railroad track in North London, just west of Finsbury park and leading up to Highgate Hill. It was supposed to be part of the London Underground, but it was left unfinished and turned into a parkway. At the end of the track is a trio of brick archways, gated with bars. And through those bars, in a special tunnel, some bats live. There’s Kevin, an accountant (and also a bat), Rebecca, a poet (a bat as well), and Harriet. Harriet is not really a bat, but she hasn’t told Rebecca and Kevin yet. She just got really drunk one halloween and lost her way home.

Papa taught her how to walk on the moon, just in case.

“One day, we’ll all get up there. And we’ll have to walk around just like we do here. We’ll have to go to the shops and buy loaves. And go to the bank to cash in cheques. And get to the bus stop. Except it’s different on the moon. It’s not just like here. The loaves are flat and wide. The cheques are made out in Moon Tokens. The buses are very long and have many wheels. And walking is bouncing.”

So he made her a suit filled with little pockets, alternately of air and sand, to get the balance just right. And he gave her a special snorkel with a very long hose. And he threw her into the deep end of the pool. And gradually, she learned to walk on the moon.

 

Tessa sold Lego. She made it herself. So, I suppose, it wasn’t technically Lego, since Lego is a trademark, but it’s basically Lego. So we’ll call it Lego.

She made the Lego in a variety of different plastics and other materials. Soft, gummy translucent lego. Lego so light that it would float up if you didn’t keep careful hold of it. Chocolate Lego that melted on hot summer days. Metal Lego, for the hardcore.

Barbara wanted to make a Lego Millenium Falcon (trademark). She wanted the Lego to be made out of Wine Gums (also a trademark), so she could eat it if she got sad.

So Tessa built the Millenium Falcon kit. And Barbara ate it piece by piece, straight out of the box.

You clap with both your hands. Each against the other. Doesn’t work with just one. Has to be a joint effort. You clap with both your hands and you smile with your face and your mouth, and then you lean forward in your chair to stand with your two feet, both of them together, one would be fine but why not two, and your smile expands and your teeth join the party, too, and you raise your elbows higher and crane your neck to peer over the people in front of you who are doing the same, and you borrow your left hand from its clapping duty, and the right, expectant and joyful and delighted to meet with its twin another time, hits thin air, and keeps going, and, slightly embarassed, curls down limp and lifeless in shame. For the other has been borrowed for a very important task, raised to your open mouth and lips and teeth and pursed into a claw, its thumb and forefinger rattling in the wind and letting out a loud squeal of delight and duty. And as soon as it’s done the left dives back down and finds its partner again, and it tells it not to worry, and givs it a gentle hug. I’m here it says. And your right palm, smiling, resumes the applause.

He scrapes yoghurt onto his tongue with the spoon. Not so much licking it as pasting it like mortar, with the handle pointing downward and the concave cup being dragged against the tip of his taster. The strawberry gunk concertinas onto itself and drops limply into his mouth. He curls it up to the roof of his eating hole and then turns his attention downward once again. He digs down and scours the side of the pot to get every last gloopy drop, and does it again, then plunges the spoon back into the empty pot and sets it down onto the bench. It falls over immediately.

“I just think… maybe you should eat less yoghurt.” You shuffle slightly in your seat, and cross and uncross your legs. He reaches into his napsack and pulls out another. You wonder how many are left.