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.

A peacock rustles a crisp bag. A taxi grumps past, jolting the bird with a splash of murky city water. He picks himself up and assesses the nutritional content of another piece of detritus. This is no way for a majestic beast such as me to be treated, he thinks to himself. A pair of stubby pigeons watch him from a grey gutter. One of them proffers a half-eaten sub sandwich. The peacock grimaces at the heavy smell of processed meat. Feeling no other option, he begins to chow down. The taste of the sloppy meat improves slightly as it flops down his princely gullet. That’s not so bad actually. He raises his head, plume forward, eyes in the streetlight. His tail a little shorter, his chest a little greyer, he thanks his new comrades.

I found her laid out on the floor in our garden, chest down, arms stretched, cheek and palms grazing the paving stones. It was cold and it was calm.

I knelt down next to her. “What are you doing?” I asked.

Her reply was quiet and simple,”I’m giving the Earth a hug.”

There was once a rain cloud, who wasn’t very happy. Every time he popped out to say hello to the world the people would scowl and complain, and put up shields to hide their faces. He would make the ground shiny and beautiful, and the air fresh and clean, but nobody wanted to know.

One day, a particularly sad day, he was moping, hanging around the park with no one to talk to, as usual. He sighed, the dead leaves rustled. He was met with a joyful giggle. He looked down, and saw a boy and a girl, red and yellow wellingtons respectively, splashing around in his puddles. He couldn’t believe it. As he beamed, his rain fell harder, and their laughs became louder. Maybe he was worth something, after all.

Fill a bottle with soil and seal the end, drop it from the bow of a ship, with a kind goodbye and a soft wink.

Take a feather from a duck, console her for her pain and thank her for her trouble with a bag of crusts. Leave the feather on a train track.

Make a circle with chalk on the floor of a bank.

Be nice to somebody new.

Give the world a second chance.

Be brave.

Climb a tree.

Sleep in.

Climb a tree.

Sleep in.

Climb in.

Sleep a tree.

Be nice to the ducks.

Climb.

Sleep.

(Daily advice imparted from my father’s hospital bed.)

“You ate all the ham, didn’t you?”

“No, none of the ham.”

“But did you have the ham?” the answer was yes.

“No.” He could taste the delicious pig in his mouth. Even the soft cookie, gift from the duck, couldn’t mask the taste of the gorgeous salty meat. The meat that compelled him to lie.

“But did you though?”

“Basically Harry, mate,” he said, “what is life?” This was a delicious disguise, to cover up the pork hanging out of his gaping nosh hole.

“Yeah okay.” Grumbled Harry, clueless. He had got away with it. Probably. Maybe. Maybe.

A lamb, not twelve months old, stood atop the tallest building in the city, looking down at the world. We don’t know why. Maybe he was looking for something. Maybe he needed some air. Maybe he just liked the view. Can’t lambs be curious too?

Squirrel and Greg met last Wednesday at the Co-Op. Squirrel was buying a copy of the Guardian, Greg was after a scotch egg. Greg noticed the squirrel in the magazine aisle, during a quick downward glance intended to make it look to the old lady cashier like he wasn’t having a sneaky ogle at the titty mags on the top shelf. “What’s a squirrel like you doing here?” asked Greg, bemused. The squirrel looked up, startled, then his eyes slowly melted to the ground, his tiny, squirrel-sized copy of the Guardian falling to the floor. Greg could tell something was up. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked. The squirrel nodded. They paid, gathered their purchases, and headed out to the bench in the park opposite the shop. Squirrel told Greg all about his hazelnut addiction, and how he had needed to get out of the house to escape the peer pressure. Greg sympathised. He told squirrel about the heroin. They agreed to swap vices for a week: Greg would get on the nutty-nuts and Squirrel would give shooting up a try.

A week has passed, and Greg sits waiting for Squirrel to return. He’s late. Probably he’s passed out in some tree trunk somewhere, off his face. Greg begins to wonder if he should have been a little more cautious when agreeing to Squirrel’s suggestion. With a delicate sigh, he chomps down on another nut.

“We just go’ engaged!” slurred the man to the quiet train. He stood, crooked, at the end of the carriage, near the door, a can of Magners’ in hand. Nobody stirred. He patted his, presumably, fiancée, on the shoulder, and tried again, a deep breath, broad lips bearing dry teeth. “We just go’ engaged!” A little louder. As people start to notice they give a little cheer, a weak ‘wahey!’ ripples down the fusilage. “Wha’, just noo?” enquires a nearby punter. The man wears a red checked shirt. He seems friendly enough. “Nae, go’ engaged in Windermere, just bough’ the ring.” He beams again. “We jus’ go’ enaged!” he closes his eyes to the sky. Cyncical as I am, I can’t help but smile at his happiness.