365 Ways With Words

About-Heart-Break

                                            Inspired-inculcated-cardholdheld-handshine-shiny-shake-keeled-keeper

                                            An earful accumulator in distracting detraction

                                            Drown and deafen and empty and deep

                                            They are the same

 

                                            On the rock-strewn road near the end there are few stops worth the time

                                            Spiteful eyes converge with daubed memories

                                            Emotic erotic rocket fire

                                            Spits up the morning

 

                                            Sleepy wellspring of devotion pushes in a proud undetected direction

                                            And effortlessly leaves a trail of star tears

                                            Ahead are cold mornings

                                            Shoulder skin frozen

The Tao of Socks

“It is in seeking ourselves

That we find togetherness”

The audience Oooh’d! and Ahhh’d! at each pronouncement. They knew their meditations had brought them so far, but felt that the words of their teacher and prophet were beyond their comprehension.

“And in the acquisition of precedence

There is loss...”

There was a cough from the back.

“Yes?” the master, eager to appear equanimous in the face of all questioning, tilted to listen.

“Is there a meaning behind the contradictions?”

“Ah, yes indeed. Just as there is left and right, so there are two sides to all things. And they are all the same.”

“Yes, but can we find true happiness if we are not all the same? I mean, should we not all be polyester mixes or pure cottons? Surely we cannot mix like this forever.”

“I see.” The grandmaster, one of the most threadbare amongst them, kept for sentimental reasons rather than any practicality, prepared his response. “The truth is that we are all polyester mix, and we are all pure cotton.”

There was a stunned silence from the assembled draw. What manner of strange wisdom was this? It transpired the conventions of sockdom. All knew that like went with like. Polyester mixes were all well and good, but the ‘cotts’ knew that to be paired with a ‘poly’ was to court disaster, and vice versa: it was said the two had been tried in ancient times, but it was known polys always thinned quicker than cotts, but were lighter in the summer. In this way they were forever divided.

“There is an old story of two pairs who were very happy and friendly together. They made it through many-a spin-cycle without one of them being… ‘lost’.” At this last word there was a murmur of horror – the last thing any of them wanted was for one of a pair to be separated. For it meant certain death: at best a removal to the ‘odd sock’ draw, at worst an instant disposal execution in the bin. Being ‘lost’ was a thing too shocking to mention.

“Then, the most dreadful thing occurred; one of the cottons disappeared. There was a dreadful scene later on after a prolonged search drew a blank. The remaining cotton wailed and sang the mournful lament, ‘May my threads unravel. May my elastic snap.’ But it was to no avail. The sock was now alone. The others tried to comfort, but that only made the poor lonesome soul sing the louder. Finally, one of the friendly poly pair unravelled itself and cuddled the poor cott. And it was in that way they were found.”

Another murmur went through the crowd: for one sock to unravel was bad enough, for it to join with another sort was a strange kind of inter-species union that was very much taboo.

The voice at the back of the drawer commented, “We have all heard this tale, but it is merely a legend – a myth that teaches us to keep to our kind and be happy in our union.”

“Yes, you are right. That is how it is commonly interpreted. But there is deeper wisdom in this tale. For the truth is this: where one sock is alone, it is to be pitied, but it is also to be kept as a full member of the community. No sock is better than another.”

There was a loud angry snapping of elastic hems. Everyone knew that the white off-coloured sports cotts were at the bottom, the patterned coloured polys and cotts were next, the black cotts sat a little further up the social ladder and the supremo silk socks lorded it over them all. And yet, here the master was telling them that their society was wrong. Was a sock revolution in order? Would anarchy reign, with socks doing their own thing, uniting willy-nilly and causing distress at the time or adornment?

The master quieted them down. “I hear your concerns. But I can speak as one who knows these things; for the story may be legendary, but it was not a myth. You see; I was the left left by my right!”

There was pandemonium – socks were jostling with each other left, right and centre of the drawer. In the confusion a pair fell out and landed amongst the underpants below. If what this aged sage was true, it amounted to a confession that socks could actually go it alone.

“Master, master, say it isn’t so!” came many voices.

“But it was so. They were very happy together – a cott and a poly. I saw it. And they were worn without prejudice! I was left – but was happy for them, for their happiness also made me wiser. They were taken on a relaxing out-of-season weekend break where, it was said, they rolled under the bed. Some say they remain there still – in a land of equal rights for all sock types, in a place where mixes and 100%s, patterned and one-colours can all mix freely and without contradictions. Some also say this marvellous realm has a holy name: Bognor Regis!”

“Bognor Regis!” They all repeated the name as a new holy mantra.

And in that way the new teaching was acquired. From then on, each sock looked out for another, regardless of yarn, stitch or hue. And they would listen contentedly as the aged philosopher pronounced the message of sock love, happiness and harmony. For as one they now desired a unity of sockdom through combination not only of lefts and rights, but also the desire for Bognor Regis.

Monkeys on My Skin

I have monkeys on my skin! All over. At first, I couldn't really feel them: they were like so much background – ignorable. Like the wind blowing or the waves crashing, their footfalls were as natural a part of day-to-day experience as all other sensations. In fact, for a long time they were quite nice to have around.

I have a lot to do. I am usually busy with a whole host of matters that do not concern you. You would not, could not, understand even if I was to explain. Even so, it could be argued that I had not taken sufficient attention. That I'd let things go: became preoccupied. I'd been accused of that several times before.

Be that as it may, it was only recently that their activities became noticeable – these wretched monkeys. They always had this double nature, you see. Many of them had been content to gaze, graze and appraise. I quite like that, if you'll forgive the parachesis. After all, it's certainly beautiful out there, something I cherish. Many of them still do it, of course – the good monkeys. But they're not the ones I'm worried about. It's the others that got to me.

It's like this: I could sense something was up – that developments were taking place. After all, these monkeys had themselves been changing. I like novelty. I like change. Fantastic new things happen when there's enough opportunity for change. But the changes in the monkeys, the very duality of them, meant that it was only a short time before their dark monkey activities would be noticed. And so it happened. The first thing to surprise me was their very fecundity. They were as bad as rabbits! They appeared to set out, without any apparent restraint, to reproduce all over –every nook and cranny– spreading to parts of my skin I hadn't thought monkeys could go, let alone thrive. And when they spread, they took a bit of a toll on the others, something the majority appeared unable or unwilling to care about.

The second surprise was their destructive nature. It appears that they are a marvel of reproductive chaos, but also rather adept at slaughtering their own and every other poor thing that comes near them. And for the most illogical of reasons, as far as I'm concerned.

With their continued spreading, these naughty monkeys wanted more; of what was out there, of what had been stored, of what was supposed to go around for everything and everyone. They took and did not give back, even boring down into the skin, blowing it apart, tearing it up, filling it up with their crap. And the more they spread, the more they wanted, as if there was an infinity of it all.

Well, you know me: I have magnificent tolerence, but it's only a matter of time before things come to a head. And it won't be by my doing. There's no one to stop these monkeys doing all they please, but in the end they will cause themselves terrible self-injury. If they don't wake up and realise what's going on with their bad behaviour, decide to change, and then get on with it, then there'll be nothing left. And that means nothing left for them.

Some of them do realise the time for change has come. They do their best, but they can do little against the other monkey's senseless selfishness. Lately I fear it has come to this – that they will only stop their foolish monkeying around when it hurts the most. When their dying monkey children cry out, when their lives are turned upside down, when they can do nothing but change. It would be rather nice if all the monkeys could hear the words of the nice, gentle ones, but alas...

The Cure

Harold had few faults. He was tidy, clean and inoffensive. He liked ordinary plain food and enjoyed nothing more than to walk with friends across the moors or beside the lake. He sometimes chided himself that instead of going to the pub like other men, he would stay at home and put his feet up with a mug of cocao.

His wife, Monica, was similarly inclined – her home cooking was superb, and she pottered about the semi-detached garden weeding, tidying, trimming. Before bed she'd regularly relax in the bath.

The problem, however, had always been there. She noticed it even before their lovely white wedding, even before they had shared a bed, even before they had finished their first date. It was his problem and it had simply not diminished as she had hoped, and he had prayed, over the years. The problem was his wandering eyes.

He just couldn't help it. When a woman walked past, he had to look at her. Whether walking, driving, cycling, sitting, watching TV, in the dentist's waiting room, on the number 9 bus, when at work – he stared just about anywhere! But to use the word 'stare' was a bit strong. No, he just couldn't help noticing. He noticed their attractive faces, their delicate skin, their thin arms, their gracious necks, their fine hair, their solid torsos and thin waists, their fleshy thighs, their beautiful clothes, their bouncing bottoms, smooth calves, delicate ankles, exciting shoes and pretty feet. He particularly enjoyed noticing boobs, from flatline small to pendulous and gargantuan swingers, and couldn't help but think of them in his hands – what kind of nipple they might have, what their consistency was when within his grasp...

These erotic daydreams didn't exactly fill his thoughts, but they popped in and out of his mind with a regularity that felt to him as normal as a casual reading of the paper. But it wasn't always so. The mere sight of a woman had aroused very strong emotions in the younger Harold. He would often be so aroused that he would have no option but find quiet places to masturbate – at school, in college, even on his first day at work. But the fixations of his intense self-arousal were not the deliberate manifestations of any special stimulation of the day; they were more the combined effect. He came upon the merged effect of all women – all the bums and skirts, all the cleavage and tops, all the hair-dos and shoes.

His wife, however, found it all too much. She watched him at the lights: if an eyelid so much as flinched as a pretty girl nonchalantly made the crossing then he would get a stern rebuke, or even a slap. If they were at a restaurant and she thought his eyes were noticing too much about the approaching waitress, then he would receive a belting kick under the table. It wasn't that he didn't love her – for he was devoted. He would do anything for his beloved wifey – even she could notice that. But his noticing was too hard to ignore, and impossible for him to turn off. She couldn't cope with it and he simply couldn't control it.

Things came to a head at her birthday party. She noticed him noticing her sister – her very own sister! That night they had a blazing row where she accused him of flirting, of affairs, of being an unfeeling monster who put others first and made her feel insignificant. This was too much. He was reduced to a blubbering wreck. They discussed his noticing in the past, that he had promised not to notice, to reform and take charge of his eyes like a man, but now at 3:30 am, after two and a half hours of non-stop badgering, he was broken. He was thoroughly ashamed and felt completely rotten. This problem was bigger than him. He needed help.

The following morning he made an appointment with the surgery. At 11.00 am Doctor Crowther admitted him to his consulting room and Harold made his sorry confession at length and in detail. The doctor listened in silence, pen in hand and head tilted to one side, scribbled a few notes in Harold's thin file, then made his pronouncement.

"Hmmm... you have a problem. And it sounds like you've tried everything in your power to resolve this. I think it's time you let the professionals take over. I will suggest you go to see this man–" the doctor scribbled a name on a pad, "and see what he has to say. He's very good, is a personal friend, and has worked with many of the best – stars of screen and stage, academics, industrialists, financiers and politicians. If he can't help you, then come back and I'll see what else I can do."

So, indeed, with Monica's blessing Harold chased up the appointment with Dr Bloom. He suggested a course of drug treatment. Harold took the little green pills religiously for three months, but nothing changed and the eyes followed boobs, bottoms and thighs. Dr Bloom suggested something a little stronger and took Harold off the pills and gave him a course of aversion therapy, using elastic bands and even a pin to prick himself whenever he found his eyes resting on a beautiful girl's hairline or ankle chain. But Harold ended up snapping all the elastic bands and pricking his fingers and thumbs so much that he resembled a pin cushion. Dr Bloom then suggested his last resort – electro-shock therapy. In a state of desperation, Harold was taken to the hospital where the convulsive treatment was given. Although he awoke feeling calm, and even collected, it was seconds before he noticed the nurse's starched uniform was having an effect, and he was back to square one. Despite repeated attempts to change his behaviour, he remained a dogged and miserable observer of the delights of womankind.

Returning to Doctor Crowther at 11:30 the next day, he felt ashamed to reveal that none of the treatments had worked. As Harold retailed his litany of failed treatment, the good doctor listened once again in silence, his head inclined and his pen once again held in his hand, before scribbling more short notes, this time complete with underlines.

"Hmmm... this problem is worse than I thought. I don't doubt that you have tried your hardest, nor that the professionals have done their best, but perhaps it is time for drastic action. Have you considered homosexuality? I wonder if you should take a good look at diverting your attentions towards men instead. Come back in one month after you have done something about it."

Harold was not sure about this rather unorthodox approach. It seemed like some sort of perversion to him. But he was desperate – more so than before. So with heavy heart he told his beloved wife the doctor's peculiar advice and she suggested he go to the Cricketer's Arms to see if oogling at men would change things for the better. He turned up the next Friday night in spandex and lycra, trying to smile. Standing at the bar a regular, Steve, struck up conversation with him. Not wishing to feign interest for therapy's sake, he accepted the offer of a quickie in the toilets, just in case this would dilute his unsatisfiable cravings for the sight of a girl. The gay man closed the toilet door behind him, grabbed him around his waist and, running his hands down the inside of his leggings to his groin, took his member within his fingers. Harold winced. No one had done anything like that to him – except for Monica, and that only after a bath. It wasn't right. He tried to enjoy it, but in truth all he could think about was a spectacularly large pair of tits. Realising this was not going to work, he stopped Steve from going too far, politely thanked him for his understanding and walked back home to bawl his eyes out on poor Monica's bony lap. Monica also wept: how could they overcome this seemingly insuperable obstacle to marital harmony?

Returning at 11:55 am the next day to the excellent Doctor Crowther, Harold retailed how useless stab at homosexual therapy had been. The Doctor once again tilted his head, held his pen, scribbled his notes and said, "Hmmm... I fear this problem will only have one solution: surgery. I will make an appointment at once."

So saying, an appointment was made with the leading ocular specialist at the local general hospital. Harold turned up next day and, after a preliminary examination, was admitted for the double enucleation. The operation was a success and Harold was returned to his private room to recover.

It was more than a day before he roused to full consciousness, the effects of the anaesthetic taking a long time to wear off. He tried to open his eyes to focus on something else; but they had gone. Groggy, he asked for water.

He felt a hand – it was Monica's. He sensed she was worried: had the operation worked? At last he would now not be able to notice other women. He'd be free from all this noticing: both he and she would at last be happy – they'd both be happy together! But as he came to, now completely unable to see, his first thought was of the perfect small of a woman's back – its delicious sensuous curve like a venusian wave upon a sea of engaging tranquility.

Harold tried to cry, but he had no eyes.

Sense and Sensitivity

It happened. It was happening. It is happening. It happens.

The effects were instantaneous – an accumulation of all sensory information. He was aware of every item of information about everything in all directions. At the same time he was unable to take in any of it.

His visual cortex took in all the information from his eyes, even the peripheral vision was alive, streaming information into his head. He could feel the light enter his cornea to transfer through the tiny lens and vitreous liquid before slamming into the retina and lighting up the rods and cones like tiny excitable fuses.  The acuity of focus became a bundled mass of extra detection – the pictures on the wall were broken into deep pools of coloured, textural detail, each transferred within myriad pinpricks of light. But more than that, he was now also aware of the processing in the cortex, the pathways of stimulus as the eyes and optic nerves jangled. On its own that would have been extraordinary enough, but there was also so much more going on.

His ears picked up every detail within earshot – the boiler permanently exhaling in the kitchen, the wind rattling the windows, even his breathing and heartbeat and the auditory signatures of every little element within his vicinity. The quivering hairs within his cochlea received the magnified information given from outside. He had thought it quiet, but now even the silence was a wall of pressured sound. Unaccostomed to such overload, he instinctually put his hands to his ears, but this only served to emphasise the reverberations, squelching them further with the effects of his cupped hands.

In his hands he could feel the natural pressure of his circulatory system coursing through the capillaries and veins like so much fluid held by a flesh bags. He was aware of the synaptic functions within the muscles, the feedback of each neuron, the tensions within each of his muscles that kept his arms upright: these took on gargantuan proportions of which hitherto he'd been completely oblivious. The signal was naturally sent and his chest arose. With it his lungs expanded, only so far until numerous oxygen exchange and muscle tensions indicated a breath was fit to be expelled. Beneath it all his heart took regular beats – contract, rest, contract, rest. In his entire life he'd probably noticed this phenomena for no more than a minute, and yet the vitality of his being relied on this organ's muscular fitness and perfection.

And with each breath came air rushing over his olfactory organ – the tasting of chemical signals picked up and detected. He could smell his body, the base sexual and the bacterial odours: these rushed to the nerve centres and were split and diverted to the areas of his brain where the effects of molecules, mere molecules, were being summarily decoded.

He felt the pressure of his tongue on his palate and teeth, of the watery taste of his mouth. More still, he was picking up indications from his alimentary system of digestion, each squeeze of peristalsis and the minute transfer of food nutrients through the lining of his ileum, whilst separate enzyme indicators co-ordinated levels of sugars through his gut and water retention in his colon. The whole effect was of a tenuous organic machine absorbing the means necessary for function.

Further still, he was also aware of the effects of gravity on every part of his body, his bulbous feet on the level floor, and of the pressure of the seat upon which he rested. His skin gave off pressure data about he clothes he wore, the temperature and air pressure, even the air displacement within which he sat.

How had his mind ordinarily coped with all this information? From everywhere perceptional stimuli rushed into his mind without filtration, without the natural sifting of the brain. Instead, he was aware of it all and of the automatic processing of each point within the grey matter between his ears. How could he survive another six hours of this, let alone one hour – or one minute or second longer. This was the very definition of overload.

But then he noticed he was able to control his arms. He lowered them. They obeyed. He had wanted to control parts of this complexity and had been able to do so. He raised and lowered his arms again, like some slow exercise for those in clinical recovery. The same thing happened. If he could control his arms, he reasoned, he could control other things. Indeed, he was able to siphon off the sounds from all sources to just one thing – his breathing. He chose to ignore everything other than the focused points of his eyes, cutting out the perception processes and resolving structure and from that meaning. He found he was staring at the corner of the table. His mind was alive to the fact that this corner, an ordinary part of this mundane piece of furniture, had edges and that light was bouncing off it and entering his eyes, but he now understood: this was a corner.

He was overjoyed! For those seconds of mass perception all had been a tumbling force of chaos. Now he was able to control at least one thing and make from it a thought, just one single thought, that this was the corner of the table, something he understood and was able to use. The function of a table did not have to exist in his eyes, but was the principle of form – it had tableness to it.

Within seconds this realisation extended to all other aspects of his perception and as more came under his control, more things took on meaning and relevance. Instincts returned to mere instincts again and were ignored. He had another thought – to talk. He simultaneously thought and opened his mouth: "Let it be!"

That wasn't what he thought at all, but those were the words that crept from his larynx and lips. This was a surprise, and he immediately thought of the Beatles and their soulful ballad, as if that had been lurking in the back of his mind somewhere, but it had not come from there. In fact, he did not know where it had come from; as if it had not come from him at all. The words had originated elsewhere and made manifest somewhere between his thoughts and his actions.

And for the remainder of the day the question of where these words had come from occupied his idle thoughts. In fact, the question never left him – not that week, or that year or for all the years to come.

The Fridge That Talked

The trip was past its introductory phases and the altered state gradually kicked in where almost anything could be expected. She blissfully let it go.

To the observer, not that there were any in her subterranean London flat that Saturday evening, she appeared a figure transfixed on the edge of her sofa. It was a beautiful, enjoyable high that lifted the soul and breathed life into her mind. Taking in the visual hallucinations that perfectly blended her sensations of the patterned carpet beneath her feet, the hardness of the table, the deep squidgy sofa, her living body and her sensitive fingers became the antennae of perception to aspects found within normally-hidden objects. She was also aware of her humour returning and with it the giggles began. Each cascade of laughter had a quality – florets of spreading flowers, each volume of air transfixed by the delightful quantities of oxygen that spread through her body and returned changed and balanced. In fact, there was a balance of sorts with everything. A connection with all. Ooh, this felt good.

She was happy – happier than she'd been all week, if not all month. The thoroughly pleasant sensations brought with them a warmth and generous attitude. They worked both ways; towards and from her. She couldn't stop the laughing, and didn't want to.

All her visual cues were tweaked in amusing and attention-grabbing ways. On the table was a glass of water, the liquid filling the vessel as a foot in a sock, both separate and intrinsic to themselves. There was waterness and glassness, soft and hard. Together they had separate meanings, together they were different yet became a perfectly nice combination. She could feel all this without touching. It was a known. Other things took her attention: on her left the cushion seemed an eternity of comfort she wanted to dive into, but felt it might go on forever if she started. Her eyes took in other familiar objects and they transformed with emphasis and meaning into greater and deeper things. Her neurons were remembering links between things that in everyday life had disassociation. Fascinating!

She had carefully prepared for this time – turning off her mobile, locking her door and drawing the curtains. This was a precious moment between her and the 'sacred medicine', as she called it. For much of the weel she had watched her diet and hadn't eaten anything at all that day. Consequently she had hunger in her stomach, but even this sensation now spoke to her: she was ready to consume experience.

The more she sat there considering her empty stomach, the more the kitchen appeared to beckon. She found herself standing in the doorway. All she could hear was the hum of the fridge motor as the freon circulated the rear vents. She touched it. The white door felt very cold – fridgey. She wanted to put her ear to it: "Hello!" she said.

To her astonishment the fridge rattled to a stop as if exhuding a long breathy sigh. Except now, of course, the astonishment was mixed with her trip astonishment at everything.

"Hello!" said the fridge back to her, although it sounded like an echo of her voice. In fact, she wasn't sure if this was her echo, a loop in her head, or a real voice. She said it again. "Hello!"

"I already said hello!" said the fridge.

It definitely said something, in a low moanish voice. Her mouth dropped. "WHAT? You're a fridge. You're not alive."

The fridge appeared to sigh, although to her unaffected aspect of her eyes the fridge did nothing of the sort. "I know."

"But, what do you mean?"

"I didn't mean anything. You did." retorted the fridge

"I meant, what did you say? You said hello! Fridges don't speak."

"Why not?" it barked back. "Have you ever said hello directly to a fridge before? I expect not."

She grabbed either side of the tall fridge with both hands. "Hang on – you mean fridges can talk?"

"Well, I can't say all fridges can. I expect some of them don't, some won't and some can't."

"But this is amazing! I can't believe it."

"Hmmm... I thought you'd say that. Perhaps it's something to do with not listening."

"But, I mean, you don't have a mouth. Where's your voice come from?"

"I  don't know. Where does yours come from? I wonder if you have ever thought about it – your voice. Is it simply the words you annunciate? The sounds? Or is it something deeper, something from within? And where does that come from?"

Her mouth dropped even further. Her jaw was aching with drinking a million gallons of astonishment. Per second. "How? What? My voice? But where does yours come from. I think and then I say the words. I am the words I think." She was quite content with that little piece of observation.

"Precisely so."

She thought for a second. "So, you're trying to tell me that you think too?"

"I have a lot of time on my hands."

"But you don't have a brain, or hands or a mouth."

"Yes, you already said that. I suppose it's like this – I have time to consider what I think. I don't have to establish first where these thoughts originate. I don't have to convince myself that I have no brain and therefore I cannot think. I merely think. All the time. What I don't do is talk. Actually, this is the first time."

"The first time you've talked?"

"Yes."

"Why haven't you talked before? To me?"

"There are two reasons. For a start, there's the communication issue – how do I do it?"

"Yes, how are you doing it?" she opened the door, peered into the freezer department and enjoyed the coolness of air on her skin. She even flicked the light on and off several times to take in the effects of lumination on her retina.

"Do you mind?" the fridge interrupted.

"Oh, sorry." she apologised and returned to her first position with an ear to the door.

"And you don't have to do that." he resumed.

"Do what?"

"Have your ear to the door. You can talk quite normally to me without looking like some aural limpet."

She laughed vigourously.

"As I was saying, the means of communication open to me are limited. And right now seemed like a good time, after the proper introduction."

"The proper introduction? Oh you mean the mushrooms."

"The mushrooms? Oh dear me, no. I mean that you were polite enough to say hello in the first place. It can be difficult for a stationary object."

"Wow! So you were waiting all this time for me to get high and talk to you?"

"Waiting? No, not really. But introductions are difficult at the best of times. Ask the washing machine."

She turned to the open mouth of the washing maching from which a long red sock hung like a tongue. She went over and touched the machine. "Hello!" she softly intoned, stroking the plastic moudling. Nothing came back.

"I suppose he's not talking today. He gets like that." the fridge called over.

She turned back to address the fridge but halted: it seeemed to be pulsating and gyrating, as if on a slow sultry walk on the spot. She giggled like a child. "What's the second thing. You said there were two things that stopped you. Erm, how do you do it, and...?"

"Why."

"I'm sorry?" She came back over to hold the fridge again with both hands.

"Why is the second thing. Why should I talk. A lot of machines simply don't want to. It's not worth it. Perhaps you don't understand. Actually, I think you won't, not being mechanical."

"Machines don't want to talk?"

"Don't and won't. At the end of the day they are servants, at least in terms of function. You don't honestly expect them to enjoy it all, do you? And then to also give up their thoughts? No, I don't know of one in 100 machines that would do it."

She dropped her head at this idea, even more astonishing than a talking fridge, that machines wouldn't want to talk. "But you are – talking, I mean. Why not the washing machine, the toaster, the... blender." She staggered, her head swimming.

"Look, why don't you sit down. It looks like we're going to have a long and heartfelt conversation about machines, life and meaning, so get comfortable. It might be better if you have some water. There's some ice cubes in the tray."

So with glass in hand, she sat entranced by her cold cabinet companion's philosophy, stories and reasoning until weariness overtook her at about 1 a.m., she made her apologies and fell into her bed.

The next morning, she entered the kitchen and saw the chair placed in front of the big white door. It came flooding back to her in imprecise waves, like so many detached dreams coalescing in the air. She sat as before and placed her hands on either side. "Hello!" she tentatively whispered, as if embarrassed by her assumption that a mechanical device would be able to communicate. In her mind it felt as if someone else, someone human, had entered the room and was silently mocking her for such extraordinary foolishness. There was nothing but the near-silent whirr of the motor.  She put down her arms, unsure whether the fridge wouldn't or just couldn't.

Sunday Morning Shopping

She awoke to someone playing with her toes again.

"Fred!"

She pulled her feet inside the hungry duvet and rolled over. The perky purring feline scampered up her body to bonk heads, intent on getting the first meal of the day on time. She peeled opened her eyes to see a voracious tiger staring at her over its bristling whiskers.

"Go away!" she said, "It's Sunday morning. Can't I get at least one lie-in?"

"Brrraoww!!" answered Fred, bonking heads again. The day's sunlight battered at the curtains.

Coffee and toast beckoned, but on reaching the gaping fridge she remembered her forgetfulness to go shopping the day before, so neither arrived. The cat cupboard was completed denuded. Under her dressing gown Fred wrapped himself around her ankles.

"Nothing for it – have to go to the potraviny."

The nearby little potraviny was new; newly reopened, that is. Only 100 metres or so from her front door, it was always in the wrong direction from work, friends, the tram. Besides, she was a shopping snob and would pay Kč1000 for organic reindeer milk and have it wrapped in gold leaf if she could.

The door was stiff: a little bell rang as it burst. She'd not been in before and approvingly surveyed the well-stocked shelves flexing their metal muscles under the strain. Not bad, she said to herself, but the prices would be twice normal – all potraviny torture the desperate locals. She grabbed three cats and a trendy marge from a fridge.

The door tinkled again and another Sunday shopper stepped across the chequerboard floor – all on black.

"Good day!" shouted the newby, picking up a bag of cheesy pretzels and a massive Kofola. "My breakfast, Ježek." Smiling, he dribbled coins from his hand onto the counter, turned and as his hand grabbed the door handle noticed her, so said the polite, "Good day!" and disappeared.

It occurred to her she hadn't seen the shop assistant he had just bought his salty-sugary fix from. She peered around a big box of Daz and saw something scurry across the counter. "WHAT was THAT?" she said out loud, her voice filling the small store. She stepped forward in time to see a prickly hedgehog wander back across the counter towards the bread section, its little black nose sniffling on the saucer containing the money. 

"MY GOD!" she shouted, covering her mouth. The little beast stopped, turning to face the unseemly noise: its beady eyes twinkling black stars. "Hello, you..." she kindly said, astonished, and extended a tentative digit towards the bristly back. The hedgehog made a low squeak, making her withdraw to a fist.

Another customer barged in, picked up a tiny jar of instant coffee and approached the un-busy counter. He appeared to be waiting behind her, so she moved to one side, allowing him to go first. He nodded in thanks. She was just about to mention the astonishing discovery of a shop-bound erinaceous mammal to him when without flinching he calmly said, "Morning, Ježek!", put the required change onto the saucer, said a quick goodbye and left.

The hedgehog squeaked and rumbled again, scattering the apples in the basket beside the till. She watched, unable to close her mouth with astonishment. Several more customers floated in and out, each displaying the same complete lack of surprise about the scurrying creature in the potraviny.

Finally, unable to contain herself any longer, she stopped an old man about to leave with his reduced-price cauliflower. "Excuse me, but didn't you notice – this shop is run by a hedgehog."

"I know – service is dreadful since the badger left."