I glanced out of the plane window and into the rising sun, it dazzled me. I remembered my mother telling me that I must never look at the sun directly, for what I considered at the time to be another empty reason, designed to cement her dominance over me and satisfy her need to control and punish. She may have been right. Kaleidoscopic shards bounced around my retinas as I brought my face back into the cabin. No, I didn’t have to follow her rules any more, she was dead, and I no longer had anyone to answer to. As I accepted a glass of orange juice and a soggy croissant from the flight attendant, the purple-green splashes gradually faded from my vision . I realised I had been right all along, that this was just another of her deceptions. My sight was fine and clear.

I turned my head to the world again, and stared at the sun as hard as I could, feeling my optic nerve set alight with the fire of defiance.

It’s lunchtime.

“It’s lunchtime.” says Arthur. Not a stir of response.

“It’s lunchtime.” says Arthur. Not a stir the second time, either.

He slips out of the office, through the corridor, into the lift, down eight floors to the street, out the revolving doors, three lefts to the park. He purchases a falafel and halloumi wrap from a street vendor.

“Nice day, isn’t it!” he announces to the purveyor of chickpea-based fried lunch. It isn’t a nice day, that’s just what people say. The falafel lady looks at him, but doesn’t respond. He takes his meal, picks a chilled can of Fanta Icy Lemon from his knapsack (it’s cheaper in a multipack), and sits alone on a bench in the corner park.

“Nice day, isn’t it!” he says to the pigeons. They don’t respond either, but that’s fine, because they are pigeons. The clock strikes 12:05 and the square springs to life again. The five-minute respectful silence is over, and Arthur wishes he hadn’t been such a dick about it.

It is Gary’s first day at the office. He thought it was about time he made something of himself, so he decided to get his act together, put on a suit, and a tie, do an interview, and get a job. He got twenty rejections before this, Ellis & Partners. He is a grasshopper, but, in his own words “knows loads about contract law”. He scampers between the open automatic doors, then, realising that his scamper is not very business-like, amends it to a tall saunter. He hopes that they will accept him, for surely it is unusual for a grasshopper to get a job in a law firm. He wends his way to the third floor office, and says “Hello everybody, I am Gary!” Nobody hears him, because he is really tiny.

“The sea is more viscous than usual,” remarked Helen, as she retracted her probing toe.

“Must be something to do with the jelly shower.” replied Karen.

“The jelly shower?”

“Yes, the jelly shower?”

“The jelly shower?”

“Yes, last week Greg and I got woken up by the sound of a meteor shower, it was so bright and so loud. We had to go outside to look at it. It smelled of strawberry. A piece fell just in front of our feet. It looked like jelly, so Greg checked. It was jelly. Just loads of strawberry jelly, everywhere.”

“Why was jelly falling from the sky?” questioned Helen.

“I think it has something to do with God.” Karen assured her.

“Oh.” replied Helen, disappointed.

I met a man three days ago. He said to me, “Eliza, I’m from the future.” I said, “Great tactic, do you use that one often?” “No”, he said. I reached into my purse and give him a few bucks (can’t blame a guy for trying), and continued for a couple of blocks, until it clocked that he had called me by name. I marched back over. “How do you know my name?” I quizzed. “It’s on your name tag.” he replied. I looked down at my tag, sure enough. Obvious. I continued. Then I came back. “What do you mean you’re from the future?” I said. He gave me an address, a time, and a date, and ran off down the street.

“It’s not going to happen.” sighs Alan. There’s a loaf on the table and three glasses. A bread knife grazes a board and the butter is at the threshold between molten and solid, moulded into the form of a swordfish.

“Come on, there’s still hope! Just a little longer.” Pete reassures him. Pete is usually right about these things. Pete’s part of the problem, though. Pete’s a dog, and dogs aren’t supposed to talk, at least not in Lavenham, such exciting things aren’t allowed to happen round here. Three months ago Jude from round the corner gained the power of flight. They were having none of it, the villagers. Her husband, the milkman, moved out and took the children with him. Two days later and she wasn’t seen again, probably beaten to death by the local rabble. Too exciting for Lavenham.

Alan has told only his parents, surely he can trust them, they’re not going to tell anyone, they will still love him. Every second Sunday they come round for malt loaf and elderflower cordial, with a dash of rum. He told them on Thursday that Pete had started talking to him. They are twenty minutes late. He thought they had taken it well. Maybe they were as blind as the rest. Too exciting for Lavenham.

Honesty is not the best policy, contrary to that classic from my mother’s bottomless bag of pearlescent wisdom. Honesty is a good policy. It’s a very good policy, it keeps you calm, stops you panicking when someone is looking over your shoulder, or when someone notices the facts don’t quite line up, when lies collide and explode in spectacular, destructive supernovae. It’s a good policy, it frees up space in your head for other things, like recipes, or quantum physics, or phone numbers. There are better policies out there, though. I’d advocate precisely the opposite. Lie about everything, bathe your existence in swirls of deep fantasy, elegant cascades of deception, plumes of deceit. Sit and watch the fractal web of mistruths unfurl in front of you, rampant in their treacherous glow. It’s more beautiful that way. And it gets you cookies.

He had been wading through the stream for around half an hour before it struck that he didn’t know where he was. Granted, he knew where he had been and, presumably, how to get back, as rivers rarely change their course, he could just retrace his steps. Such is the way with rivers. The rare sun had brought him out of the house for the first time in weeks: unaccustomed to the heat, he had decided to cool off by taking a paddle in the clear water. As he pursued the current, familiarity melted away around him, until he was completely alone, away from town and trouble. He crawled out onto the bank, propped himself up against a lime tree, and thought about nothing at all.

I stopped being able to see last week. Light got in my eyes, it made pictures, they were there, hanging on the walls of my brain, projected on my homuncular gogglebox, but I couldn’t see them. Like when you go to a gallery and you know the paintings are all around you, but there are other things to do, like talk about shopping or rain, or think about last week or what Suzy was or wasn’t saying to you, so you don’t really see them. You stay there so late that it’s closing time, and you don’t realise until the cleaners come and you smell the soap on the floorboards, and then you know that it’s time to leave, and, for a few seconds or minutes, you’re in the moment, because the citrus invasion from the janitor’s spray has jerked you into presence, but by this time the lights have been dimmed and, even though you’re lucid, and are trying to look, they are just not what they are meant to be, murky riddles on an artist’s wall.

“It’ll be alright, she’s not suffering any more.” Gloria comforted Peter. Peter sniffed and nodded. She had had a hole in the big toe, and the time had come where she was deemed not worthy, and simply tossed away. Time was, a good owner would whip out the thread and needle, and darn the holes, make them good as new. Not these days. Simply toss ’em out and get a new one. Leave the other behind. “It’s not fair.” sniffed Peter. “I know, I know.” the other socks reassured him. He and Gloria, vibrant green and yellow, best pals from the off. You can’t darn a broken heart.