In the morning there are no buses, you walk home. Seven miles, you don’t mind. The morning is quiet and the air is fresh and new, as if a box of it has just been opened. You enter the house to find your mother, sitting at the kitchen table, sorting through a mound of buttons of every flavour, grouping them by colour and shape. You find deep satisfaction and calm in the order and regularity. “What are you going to do with all those buttons?” you ask. She doesn’t know. These things just accumulate, from dead relatives, dead clothing, anyhow, best keep them tidy, she adds. “I know a seamstress” you say. You do.

Oh sticky pan,

Wherefore dost thou stick?

Didst thou lose thy teflon shimmer?

Or something?

At the weekend, while she was away, her father removed all the doorknobs from all the doors in the house, and put them in a box at the foot of the stairs. “Why did you remove all the doorknobs from all the doors in the house, and put them in a box at the foot of the stairs?” She enquired. He didn’t tell her.

You reach into your pocket to take out your watch, to find that the time is 3:52pm, but also to find that watch’s stopclock has been started in your pocket, and that it’s been running for about forty-five minutes, still counting. You follow the hands as they continue their circuit. You think back to forty-five minutes ago. At that point you were still having lunch with Alice, a long lunch, longer than intended, because there was much to catch up on, and your mutual disinclination to curtail the encounter called for another cake, a second coffee, a chocolate wafer, until eventually she had to leave lest she fail to catch her bus. The watch must have been started accidentally, in your pocket, perhaps as you leant over the table to share your eclair. Maybe that was the start of something, you think: perhaps this is the forty-fifth minute of your future. It would be imprudent to interrupt it. You leave the clock running.

I will wait until morning. As the amber glow strokes the dew from the first blades, and the night mists convalesce and rise and lay in wait to fall as rain, and the curlews sing their tributes to the dissipating gloom, and the street lamps flicker as they head once more to bed, I shall crawl from my nest, and sing my own song, not out loud, quietly, to myself. But no, not right now. Only then.

Between the shuffling hooves of ibex, past the kneeling okapi and gemsbok, darted a mouse, late, holding high above her head a foil-wrapped parcel with a bow. She skidded to a stop beside an antelope, who turned to her, and smiled her a sympathetic smile.

“Sorry sorry,” she panted, “sorry!” She scurried to Robert. “Happy birthday!”

“Thank you, little mouse.” He replied.

There’s a rock in the garden, under which lies buried a toy soldier. If you crack an egg, on a clear dusky evening, in summer, after the rain has washed the day away, onto the rock, and if you make a wish, and keep it quiet and to yourself, and put it under your jumper, where no-one reasonable would think to take it from you. If you do that, and make that wish, and wish hard enough, and close your eyes and squeeze your hopes till they pop, then there’s a chance your wish will come true.

I found myself in the dairy section of Sainsbury’s, standing beside a tall woman in a drab coat and a fur scarf. I don’t know who arrived first, but neither of us appeared to be in a hurry to make our choice. For about three minutes we remained silent, side-by-side. Eventually, she broke through.

“I can’t decide what sort of day it is.” There was a long pause. Cautiously, I began to reply, but was interrupted. “Where on the scale is today? Is this a blue-top day? It certainly isn’t a green-top. Days gone by I would’ve been happy with skimmed. Which is basically just water. I would have been fine with water. Does that even have a top colour?” She sighed, reached past me, nudging me slightly, ignoring the holy gold-top milk. She grabbed a carton of double cream, and wandered off.

I had Bear over for dinner on Sunday evening. We cooked lasagne and home-made garlic bread – it was really not that bad. After that we played scrabble.

Bear played “hazzok”.

I said “Bear, hazzok is not a word.”

His face fell a little, his claws dropped to his lap. He seemed sad. He seemed a bit sad generally: his wife had left for Canada last week, and it didn’t look like she was coming back. He was in a bit of financial trouble due to his gambling problem. And his fence needed painting. So I let him off the hook.

“Just kidding,” I said. He perked up. The oven dinged. The apple pie was ready. “Ah!” I said, “good timing bear! The hazzok is ready!”

And so, we ate our hazzok. And Bear won scrabble. And as far as I can tell everyone was happy about it all.