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.

Sarah has two glass eyes. One on the right side of her face, and one on the left. And not just stuck on, either, they’re where the normal eyes should be. It’s totally legitimate, she has no eyes any more. I mean, no squishy ball, flesh and blood, seeing eyes. Just the glass ones. She has to remember to take them out when she goes bunjee jumping. She keeps her real ones in a jar by the door. All pickled but they’d stare right at you and follow you around the room as you came in. She can’t even see any more, it’s absolutely mad. She did it for a boy she loved. She thought he loved her too. But he didn’t love her enough to stick around once she’d got out the grapefruit spoon.

On Tuesday, Gary went to the supermarket for lunch.

“Good morning, Linda!” he said to Linda, shuffling past the checkouts and through the crisps aisle.

“Good morning, Gary!” she replied, looking up as she scanned a packet of digestives for Paul.

Gary made his way slowly to the deli counter.

“Good morning, Daniel!” he said to Daniel.

“Good morning, Gary!”  he replied, with a mix of weary reservation and chipperness.

Gary surveyed the goods. “I think I’ll try a bit of this Wensleydale!” He reached to grab piece with a little cocktail stick. “And chutney, too! And a little cracker!” His eyes salivated. He popped the treat in his mouth and chomped, evidently concentrating very hard and looking to the side as he did so, making large washing-machine like motions with his mouth. After much consideration he exclaimed: “Delicious!”

“Would you like to buy some today, Gary?” asked Daniel.

“Oh, well, maybe I’ll just try one of the others!” Daniel wasn’t surprised. “Ah, pork pie!” Gary shuffled along the counter and tried the next thing. And the next, and the next. Eventually, after trying everything once, he rubbed his stomach and said “Well, I’m quite full now!” and shuffled off.

I watched a spider packing up her silks. She wound them round a spindle and she placed them in her bag, of dark blue duffel and with light brown trim. Above us, the birds and clouds and sky, rosy-cheeked and singing, were having their after-work drinks.