Harold’s Successful Day

It all started one sunny Saturday morning when Harold decided to visit the farmers’ market. He liked the market because it gave him a chance to chat with the locals—or at least try to. As he wandered past the stalls, a vendor called out to him.

“Would you like to try some fresh apples, sir?” she asked, holding up a basket of shiny red fruit.

Harold blinked, squinting in confusion. “What’s that? Fresh what? Freckles?”

The vendor looked puzzled. “No, apples. Fresh apples!”

Harold nodded sagely. “Ah, yes, I’ve heard good things about wrestling tackles. But I’ll pass today, thank you.”

He strolled off, leaving the vendor shaking her head, wondering what in the world “wrestling tackles” had to do with apples.

Next, Harold spotted his neighbour, Margaret, across the market. She waved cheerfully. “Morning, Harold! How’s the garden coming along?”

Harold cupped a hand to his ear. “Pardon? You want to know if I’m wearing a thong?”

Margaret’s smile faltered. “What? No! I asked about your garden!”

Harold grinned, giving her a thumbs-up. “Oh, don’t you worry, Margaret. I don’t go in for that sort of thing. Strictly boxers for me!”

Margaret quickly made an excuse to leave, muttering something about needing more carrots.

Undeterred, Harold continued his way through the market. He approached a stall selling handmade candles, eager to buy something for his wife, Mabel. The vendor smiled and said, “These are lavender-scented. Great for relaxing.”

Harold tilted his head. “I see. They’re for axing?”

The vendor blinked. “No, relaxing. You know, to help you unwind.”

Harold’s eyes widened. “Oh, heavens! No, I don’t need candles for hacking things up. Mabel’s already hidden the hatchet after that hedge-trimming incident!”

The vendor wisely decided not to ask any follow-up questions and simply nodded as Harold wandered off.

The day continued in much the same fashion. At the cheese stall, he told the cheesemonger he was “definitely not into teething,” when offered some brie to taste. And at the flower stall, he kindly declined an offer for “roses for your wife” because he was “definitely not interested in rubbing toes with my wife.”

Harold ambled further down the market and stopped at a stand selling fresh bread. The baker greeted him warmly. “Good morning! Fancy a loaf? This one’s a lovely sourdough.”

Harold squinted at the loaf and frowned. “Did you just ask if I’d like to marry a toad?”

The baker stared at him in disbelief. “Uh, no, sir. I said sourdough.”

Harold threw his hands up. “Well, I’m flattered, but I’m already married, and to a lovely woman at that! No need for amphibious proposals, thank you!” He gave the baker a knowing wink and hurried off.

Further along, Harold stopped at a table piled high with jams and preserves. The vendor smiled brightly and held up a jar. “How about some strawberry jam? Just made fresh this morning!”

Harold tilted his head. “Strawberry ham? No, no, I’m off pork for a while. Doctor’s orders.”

“Jam!” she corrected, a little more forcefully. “Strawberry jam!”

Harold scratched his head. “No need to get aggressive about it. If I wanted ham, I’d just go to the butcher. But thank you for the offer.”

Harold stopped by the seafood stand, where a young fishmonger was busy arranging freshly caught mackerel. “Morning, sir! Care for some haddock today?”

Harold frowned. “You want me to add up today? What, like maths? I didn’t come here to do sums, young man. I came here for a relaxing stroll!”

The fishmonger blinked. “No, haddock. You know, the fish.”

Harold nodded, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “Ah, yes, bad luck. Well, that’s just life, isn’t it? Can’t do much about that.” He gave the fishmonger a consoling pat on the arm and wandered off.

Eventually, Harold reached the coffee cart.

“Hi there! Can I get you a latte?” the barista asked, trying to enunciate as clearly as possible.

Harold leaned in. “What’s that? You want me to get a cat today?”

The barista blinked. “No, latte. You know, coffee?”

Harold’s face brightened. “Ah, you want to talk about fate today! Well, I do like a good philosophical discussion.” He glanced around conspiratorially before leaning in closer. “I’ll tell you, I don’t think much of it. Fate, I mean. Far too overrated. Everything’s a coincidence if you ask me!”

The barista, now completely bewildered, simply nodded, handing him a cup of black coffee without further explanation. Harold tipped his hat, took a sip, and gave her a satisfied smile. “Ah, fate indeed.”

As the sun began to dip behind the clouds and the market wound down, Harold made his way home, thoroughly pleased with his outing. He had declined several strange offers—wrestling tackles, amphibian matrimony, axing candles—and managed to avoid an existential discussion about bad luck fish.

When he arrived home, Mabel was waiting in the kitchen, her eyebrow raised as she saw the strange assortment of items Harold had brought back from the market: a single parsnip, a jar of mustard (which Harold had mistaken for jam), and what appeared to be an umbrella he’d somehow picked up along the way.

“How was the market, dear?” she asked, knowing full well what to expect.

Harold beamed. “Oh, the usual. I refused to marry a toad, turned down some wrestling equipment, and had a rather enlightening chat about fate with a coffee seller. All in all, a successful day.”

Story Time

INT. DOCTOR’S SURGERY – DAY

DOCTOR: Alright, Mr Higgins. Let’s start with something simple. How are you feeling today?

PATIENT: Oh, well, the giraffe seemed pretty unimpressed with the roller skates, if I’m being honest.

DOCTOR: (pausing, confused) …Sorry, did you say giraffe?

PATIENT: Yeah, they’re tall, aren’t they? Always with their heads in the clouds, wondering why sandwiches never come with enough mustard.

DOCTOR: (blinking) Right… Okay, let’s try something else. Do you have any allergies?

PATIENT: Oh, absolutely. I’m allergic to tap dancing on Thursdays. Every time I try, my feet turn into raisins. It’s a nightmare.

DOCTOR: I see. No actual food allergies though? No medications you’re allergic to?

PATIENT: Only when the moon’s full. If I take aspirin under a full moon, I turn into a coat rack. But that’s fairly common, right?

DOCTOR: (sighing) Not exactly common, no… Let’s move on. Do you smoke?

PATIENT: Only when I’m impersonating a chimney sweep. But just for show, you know? Got to keep up appearances at the soot convention.

DOCTOR: (losing composure for a second) The soot convention?

PATIENT: Oh yes, big event. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen a competitive soot sweep-off. Those guys take it seriously. Last year, someone brought a vacuum, and things got ugly.

DOCTOR: (looking baffled) Alright, let’s… let’s check your blood pressure.

PATIENT: Ah, blood pressure. That reminds me of the time I tried to sell lemonade to a lobster. He just pinched the cup right out of my hand! Can you believe it?

DOCTOR: I… I can’t say that I can, no.

The doctor wraps the blood pressure cuff around the patient’s arm and begins pumping it, trying to focus on the task. The patient continues.

PATIENT: So, what do you think about the international ban on using trampolines as dinner tables? Personally, I think it’s long overdue. You spill one bowl of soup, and suddenly you’re a public menace.

DOCTOR: (barely paying attention, focused on the cuff) Mm-hmm. Please stay still.

PATIENT: You ever notice that raccoons never hold press conferences? Suspicious, right?

DOCTOR: (pausing mid-pump, staring at him) I… don’t really follow raccoon news.

PATIENT: That’s exactly what they want! Always rummaging through bins, but where’s the transparency? What are they hiding?

DOCTOR: (trying to maintain composure) Okay, I think we’re done here. Your blood pressure seems… well, normal, somehow.

PATIENT: That’s good to hear. It usually spikes when I start thinking about the proper etiquette for high-fiving a porcupine.

DOCTOR: Let’s move on to something simpler. Do you exercise regularly?

PATIENT: Oh, every day. I run a marathon with my pet goldfish, Frederick. He’s great, very motivational. He does most of the swimming, though.

DOCTOR: (blankly) I imagine so. And, uh, how far do you run with Frederick?

PATIENT: We usually stop when the ostrich starts leading the conga line. You can’t ignore an ostrich doing the conga – it’s basically the law.

DOCTOR: (almost impressed at this point) Fascinating. I had no idea conga-dancing ostriches were so authoritative.

PATIENT: Oh, absolutely. They’re in charge of all dance-related legislation. That’s why you never see them salsa dancing. They’re above it. Strictly conga.

DOCTOR: (At a loss for words) …Right. Well, we’re almost done here. Any family history of heart disease?

PATIENT: Well, my great-aunt Ethel once fell in love with a stop sign. Does that count?

DOCTOR: I don’t think so, no.

PATIENT: It was unrequited, though. The stop sign was already in a relationship with an exit sign. Tragic, really.

DOCTOR: (with an exasperated sigh) Okay, Mr Higgins, I think we’re done for today. I’ll… recommend you for further evaluation.

PATIENT: Great! Just make sure it’s not on a Wednesday. That’s when I herd sheep across the Atlantic. They’re very punctual.

DOCTOR: (nods, standing up and gesturing toward the door) Of course. Wouldn’t want to disrupt the schedule. Good luck with the sheep.

PATIENT: Thanks, Doctor! Oh, and one last thing – do you know where I can get a license to operate a hot air balloon made entirely of mashed potatoes?

DOCTOR: (baffled) …No, but I’ll look into it.

PATIENT: Much appreciated! Have a good one! Remember, if you ever meet a walrus with a monocle, don’t trust him – he has a wonderful way with words, but next thing you know, you’re swimming round in circles like a north sea mackerel!

DOCTOR: (staring after him as he leaves, bewildered) Noted.

Letters to the Sea

Elias had spent his whole life by the sea, a fisherman in his youth, and now in his twilight years, he lived quietly, collecting shells and repairing old nets out of habit, though he no longer had need for them. Every morning, he would walk down to the shore just as the sun began to rise. He’d sit on a large, smooth rock, watching the sea wake up, listening to the gulls as they wove through the currents of air rising above the water.

He would sit there on the beach with a small notepad, his hands weathered and slow, but steady. He would write a few words, sometimes many, sometimes just a line or two. Then, when the letter was done, he’d tuck it into a glass bottle, cork it carefully, and walk to the water’s edge. There, he would kneel, and with tenderness, release the bottle into the waves. The sea would claim it, carry it away, and Elias would watch as the fragile vessel faded, blurring into the blue expanse.

No one knew what the letters said. Elias never spoke of them, and no one ever asked. He was known as a gentle man, though a man of few words. It was simply assumed the letters were his way of keeping his mind busy, a quaint tradition to pass the time in his later years.

One summer, a girl named Anya arrived in the village with her parents, trying to find a place that felt like home. She noticed Elias immediately, sitting by the shore each morning. One day, when she gathered the courage, she approached him.

“Excuse me,” she said, her voice soft in the breeze. “May I ask what you write in those letters?”

Elias looked at her, his eyes as blue as the water behind him, a lifetime of stories hidden in their depths, and for a moment, it seemed as though he might not answer. But then, after the silence, he responded, “They’re letters to the sea.”

Anya was intrigued. “Do you ever get a reply?” she asked, sitting down beside him.

Elias looked back out at the horizon, where the sea and sky stretched endlessly away. “I’ve written to the sea since I was a young man. I started when I lost someone I loved deeply. At first, the letters were full of anger and sorrow, things I couldn’t say to anyone else. But over time, the words changed. They became letters of gratitude, of wonder. Now, I write because the sea understands. It’s always there, always listening.”

Anya was quiet, watching the waves roll in. “That’s beautiful,” she said after a while.

Elias nodded, his gaze never leaving the water. “The sea is always moving, always changing, carrying things away but bringing new things to the shore. We don’t always understand its ways, but there’s a peace in being here and watching the waves.”

The two sat in silence for a while, listening to the gentle rush of the tide and the distant calls of the gulls. Then, Elias reached into his bag and pulled out a small, empty bottle. He handed it to Anya.

“Here,” he said. “Why don’t you try? Write something. It doesn’t have to be much. Just whatever you feel right now.”

Anya hesitated at first, then took the bottle. She picked up a small pebble from the beach, turning it in her hand as she thought. Then, with a shy smile, she sat back down and began to write.

From that day on, Anya and Elias met every morning by the sea, each with their own bottle to send out into the waves. Anya found that, as the days passed, the weight of her thoughts grew lighter. The letters were never meant for anyone in particular, and yet they seemed to find their place in the world, carried away on the tide.

Years later, after Elias had passed on, people would sometimes find bottles washed up on the shore—letters from long ago, carrying something special: the quiet love of a man who had made peace with the sea.

Butter-Toaster 3000

Once upon a time, in a small English village called Quirkton, lived a man named Nigel who was well-known for his peculiar hobbies. Nigel wasn’t like the other villagers, who spent their days drinking tea or playing cricket. No, Nigel had a passion for inventing utterly pointless gadgets.

One morning, Nigel woke up with what he thought was his greatest idea yet—a toaster that could butter the toast for you. “It’s brilliant,” he thought to himself as he scribbled out a quick sketch at the kitchen table. “The world will finally recognise my genius!”

He spent the next few days working on the invention, welding odd bits of metal together, wiring circuits he didn’t entirely understand, and spending far too long arguing with his cat, Sir Pawsington, about where the butter dispenser should go. By Friday, the Butter-Toaster 3000 was complete. It was a magnificent contraption, albeit a bit oversized—roughly the size of a small washing machine. But Nigel was not one to let practicality get in the way of progress.

He invited the whole village over for a grand unveiling, convinced that this would be his moment of glory. Villagers arrived, intrigued, although many came just for the free sandwiches. Nigel stood before them, beaming, with Sir Pawsington sitting on his shoulder.

“Welcome, friends! Behold—the Butter-Toaster 3000! A toaster that not only toasts your bread to perfection but butters it for you with the precision only a machine can achieve!”

Nigel pulled off a dusty sheet to reveal the monstrous appliance. He placed a slice of bread in the toaster and pressed the button. The machine hummed loudly, with sparks flying here and there—slightly concerningly, but Nigel assured everyone this was part of the “innovation process”.

Suddenly, with a loud pop, the bread shot out of the toaster, flew across the room, and slapped straight into the face of Mrs Perkins, who had the misfortune of standing closest to the invention. Before anyone could react, the butter dispenser kicked into action, flinging a pat of butter with alarming force—hitting Mrs Perkins again squarely in the face.

For a moment, there was silence.

Mrs Perkins, covered in butter, blinked, took off her glasses, and calmly said, “Well, it’s better than that talking washing machine he made last year.”

The crowd laughed, while Nigel stood in shock, muttering, “I’ll… adjust the settings.”

To this day, Nigel, undeterred, is still in his workshop working on the next big thing—an umbrella that doubles as a cup holder. “You just wait,” he says, “this one’s going to be massive.”

The Empty Bench

Eleanor lived in a crumbling house at the edge of the cliffs, overlooking the ocean. Her house was the last one before the land gave way to the boundless expanse of water below. The townsfolk rarely visited her, not out of malice but out of respect. Eleanor had lived there for as long as anyone could remember, and her quiet, solemn presence gave her an almost mythical status in the town.

Every day, at dusk, Eleanor would leave her house and walk towards the cliff’s edge. There, she would sit on a weathered bench, looking out to sea. No one was quite sure why she did this, but it had become a part of the daily rhythm—Eleanor at the cliffs, the sun dipping below the horizon, and the waves crashing endlessly against the rocks below.

But there was something different about that evening. Eleanor felt the weight of something coming, something that had been long buried beneath the tides.

As she sat on her bench, her frail hands gripping the worn wooden beam, Eleanor’s eyes were drawn to the distant sea. At first, it was just a shadow—a flicker at the edge of her vision—but then it grew, becoming more distinct. A ship. An old, grand ship with tattered sails and a hull darkened by the sea’s grasp. It was drifting slowly towards the cliffs, towards her.

Eleanor hadn’t seen that ship in over sixty years, not since the night it had disappeared, swallowed by a storm that had raged so fiercely it had left the town battered and broken. Everyone had believed it had sunk, with all hands aboard lost. But Eleanor had known better. She had always known the ship would return.

The vessel grew closer, and as it did, the wind died, the waves quieting. There, on the deck stood a figure, his coat whipping in a breeze that seemed to exist only for him.

It was Captain James Allard, her James. The love of her youth, the man who had promised to return to her but had been taken by the sea. Yet there he was, unchanged by time.

“Eleanor,” his voice carrying across the distance between them. “I’ve come for you.”

She had waited for this moment, for this impossible return. For years, she had sat on the bench, watching, hoping, and now, at last, he had come back to her.

The cliff’s edge loomed ahead, but she did not stop. She was no longer afraid. The sea, which had once taken everything from her, now beckoned her with the promise of reunion.

As she stepped into the air, a wind caught her, gentle and soft, and she felt herself being lifted. She didn’t fall; she floated, weightless, her heart light for the first time in decades.

The townsfolk would say, in the days to come, that Eleanor had simply vanished. That one evening, she had walked to the cliffs and never returned. Some said she had finally succumbed to the grief that had haunted her for so long. Others spoke in hushed voices of the ghost ship, of Captain Allard, and the love that had transcended death.

But the sea kept its secrets well, and no one would ever truly know what had happened that night. All that remained was the empty bench at the edge of the cliffs, and the relentless sound of waves crashing against the rocks below.

The Last Evening

It was the last evening before Alice would leave for university. The house was quiet, her suitcase packed and waiting by the door. She found herself restless, drawn to the oak tree in a way she couldn’t explain. It stood at the back of the garden, silhouetted against the fading twilight.

As she approached the oak, Alice noticed something strange. The tree’s bark seemed to heave, almost as if it were breathing.

She placed her hand on the trunk.

Her fingers touched the bark, and a ripple of warmth spread up her arm. Suddenly, the world shifted. The tree, the night sky—they all blurred, and then cleared again, but it was different. Everything was covered in silver light.

Her hand remained pressed against the tree, yet now it felt softer, like skin, warm and pulsing. She tried to pull away, but her fingers were stuck. She tugged harder, but the tree wouldn’t let go.

Then she heard it—low, faint yet unmistakable, as if it were coming from the depths of the oak itself.

“Stay.”

She tried to yank her hand free, but the tree’s grip remained. The voice grew louder, more insistent, multiplying.

“Stay with us.”

The bark shifted around her fingers, and from within the tree, shapes began to emerge—faces, pale and ghostly, pressing against the wood from the inside. Their eyes were hollow, their mouths stretched wide in silent screams. She recognised them. People she had seen in the town, long gone.

“You belong here.”

“No!” she shouted… She pulled away, and the tree released her. She stumbled back.

The voices faded, the faces retreating back into the bark. The world snapped back to normal, the tree was standing still and silent.

Alice left the town and the tree behind in the morning.

How to Pretend You're Posh (And Fool Absolutely No One)

Here I am, an individual of impeccable taste, navigating the world of fine living. You must forgive me, I've just had the most dreadful time trying to find a decent vintage this morning. It's like, I say to the chap at the wine shop, "Do you really expect me to drink anything from after 2015?" And, you know, he gives me this look. You know the look—the kind that suggests he thinks I'm just a bit too posh for my own good. But honestly, anything after 2015 is basically grape juice, isn't it?

Ah, but don't misunderstand me, I am terribly refined these days. I’ve got a subscription to the London Review of Books, which I only read while sipping a perfectly brewed Earl Grey, naturally. I’ve even started calling dinner 'supper' just because it feels right, you know? I mean, it's really quite marvellous, isn't it? 'Supper' has that special ring to it. It’s a bit like 'dinner', but with that certain je ne sais quoi, which in this case means the added air of someone who has, perhaps, a favourite type of chutney—oh, and not just any chutney, mind you, but something exotic like mango and chilli, or fig and balsamic reduction. And of course, one must always discuss these chutneys with others, ideally while wearing a cashmere cardigan and standing next to an Aga, because how else would you truly embrace the spirit of 'supper'?

Speaking of chutney, I must tell you about the cheese board I hosted the other day. Oh, yes, yes, I’m a bit of a cheese board enthusiast these days. I laid out a lovely spread, something artisanal, nothing you'd find in Tesco—absolutely not! I had this Camembert which was—and I do say this with utmost confidence—ever so slightly off. Yes, off. Which is how you know it’s good, isn’t it? If it’s sort of offensive to the nose, that’s when you know you’re on the right track. And, of course, I also included a Brie that was so gooey, it was more of a puddle than a cheese—it practically had to be served with a ladle. Oh, and the crackers! I had a selection that would make any self-respecting cheese lover weep with joy: charcoal crackers, rosemary wafers, and even some gluten-free, hand-rolled, sea salt thins. Because, let’s face it, if you’re not offering a variety of crackers that require an explanation, are you really even hosting a cheese board?

Now, when it comes to weekends, you'll find me spending my time at the local farmer's market—oh, yes, very locally sourced, organic vibes only. It’s very important, you know, to support local farmers, even if it means spending fifteen quid on a cabbage. And it's never just 'cabbage,' is it? I only deal in cabbages that have names like 'heritage winter brassica' and come with a story about how they were grown on the side of some misty hill by a person named Juniper. Juniper, who probably wears handmade sandals and sings folk songs to the vegetables as they grow.

Of course, I’ve also taken up reading poetry. Not just any poetry, mind you. I’ve been diving into Keats, which I must say, is quite different from the last thing I saw the neighbour read, which was… well… let’s just say it was a Jilly Cooper novel and leave it at that. But no, now I sit in my front room—parlour, I should say—with a cup of Earl Grey, reading my Keats aloud, so the neighbours know just how terribly cultured I’ve become. I’m sure they’re impressed, even if they don’t fully understand why I’m standing at the window declaring, "A thing of beauty is a joy for ever!" at the top of my lungs.

Anyway, I must be off—I've got a yoga class to get to. Not the regular kind, of course—oh, no. It's goat yoga. Yes, goats. Someone told me it’s very calming to have a goat jump on your back while you’re doing a downward dog. I’m not entirely sure that’s true, but it sounds expensive and obscure, which means it must be good for me. Plus, there’s something rather poetic, don’t you think, about reconnecting with nature, even if nature is standing on you and chewing on your shoelaces.

Sicilian Single Estate Olive Oil

BASINGSTOKE—Local man Kevin Burrows, 43, a part-time IT technician and full-time Tesco Clubcard holder, made a life-altering purchase last Thursday when he popped into Waitrose “just for a look” after his wife’s yoga class. The item in question? A 500ml bottle of Sicilian single-estate organic olive oil, priced at an eye-watering £12.99.

Burrows has reportedly been unable to revert to his previous life of own-brand butter and two-for-one spaghetti hoops. “I used to be happy with a splash of sunflower oil, but now look at me,” he confessed, wiping a tear from his eye. “I’ve been drizzling this stuff on everything—salads, toast, even fish fingers. It’s like I’ve crossed a line, and there’s no going back.”

Friends and family say Burrows has become insufferable since the purchase, with several complaining that he now insists on talking about “notes of pepperiness” and “fruity undertones” when discussing his evening meals.

“He came round for a barbecue last weekend,” said his mate, Dave Pearson. “Next thing I know, he’s pouring olive oil onto the burgers and banging on about ‘the Mediterranean diet’. I had to pretend I was impressed, but really, I just wanted to give him a slap.”

Burrows’ wife, Angela, has also voiced concerns, claiming that her husband has started using phrases like “just a touch of balsamic” and “pass the sea salt” in casual conversation. “It’s like I’m living with a stranger,” she said. “Last night, he refused to eat his chips because they ‘weren’t organic’. I nearly fainted.”

According to experts, this condition includes an inflated sense of culinary superiority, the sudden urge to purchase artisanal bread, and an inexplicable disdain for anything from Iceland.

Burrows’s descent into the posh oil lifestyle has been swift and brutal. Just two days after the olive oil incident, he was seen browsing the “fancy cheeses” section of Marks & Spencer, where sources say he was heard repeating the phrase “burrata” under his breath. At press time, Burrows was spotted furiously Googling recipes for focaccia bread.

To Do

I recently tried to be more productive, so I decided to make a to-do list. But, of course, halfway through the day, I was still working on it. So I thought, “I’ll just add things I’ve already done and cross them off for the satisfaction.”

By the end of the day, I had a thoroughly accomplished list:

                  1.              Wake up ✔️

                  2.              Breathe ✔️

                  3.              Stare at phone ✔️

                  4.              Check fridge for snacks ✔️

Mr Nibbles

Mr Nibbles, a rotund creature with an air of considerable self-importance, paused momentarily to inspect the carpet before waddling purposefully towards the hallway. Dave, maintaining a casual watch, did not give much thought to the hamster’s expedition—after all, how far could a hamster feasibly manage to go? However, it was precisely here that Dave made a critical misjudgement: underestimating the latent agility and determination of Mr Nibbles.

Mr Nibbles identified an aperture—a narrow gap between the wall and the skirting board, an opening so minute that no reasonable person would deem it traversable. Nevertheless, Mr Nibbles, possessing an indomitable spirit akin to that of the most valiant adventurers, manoeuvred his fluffy body through the slender crevice, disappearing into the wall cavity. There, the indistinct creaks and rustlings of the hidden recesses hinted at enigmatic secrets concealed within.

Dave’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Mr Nibbles? Where did you go, mate?” he exclaimed, dropping to his hands and knees to peer into the shadowy depths of the gap. He could faintly discern the soft pitter-patter of tiny feet echoing through the house’s internal labyrinth—a structure erected in the 1970s, during a period when home construction appeared more focused on concealed mysteries than structural soundness.

In a moment of sheer panic, Dave reached for his phone. Within minutes, Shane arrived, dressed as though he were embarking on a full-scale military operation. He wore camouflage trousers, an oversized utility vest brimming with an assortment of unknown tools, and had even donned knee pads, evidently prepared for extreme contingencies. Additionally, he was equipped with his well-worn gardening gloves, a headlamp, and—for reasons that eluded Dave—a wooden spoon.

“Alright, Dave,” Shane proclaimed, his tone conveying the gravity of a commander leading a tactical unit, “where did you last see the little rascal?”

Dave gestured towards the narrow gap, prompting Shane to crouch down with the intensity of a detective meticulously examining a crime scene. “This calls for something special, Dave,” Shane declared. “Cheese,” he announced, producing a slice of cheddar from his pocket with the flair of a magician unveiling a rabbit. “Trust me, hamsters have a weakness for it.” Shane proceeded to break the cheese into small fragments and, with a rather conspicuous zeal, began placing the pieces near the gap in the wall.

For the next half hour, they waited. Dave lay prone on the floor, murmuring assurances to Mr Nibbles. “Come on, mate. I’ll get you a wheel with LED lights. I’ll even buy you those organic sunflower seeds.” Meanwhile, Shane tapped the wall gently with the wooden spoon, as if attempting to channel his willpower to coax the hamster back. Dave, observing him, could not help but raise an eyebrow, questioning whether Shane’s methods had perhaps strayed into the realm of absurdity, though he wisely refrained from voicing his thoughts.

Suddenly, a faint shuffling emerged from the darkness. Dave held his breath. Shane clung to his wooden spoon in anticipation. From the shadowy depths, the tiny nose of Mr Nibbles appeared, followed by his rapidly twitching whiskers. Enticed by the aroma of cheddar, Mr Nibbles cautiously emerged from the gap, his demeanour turning to nonchalance, as though entirely indifferent to the commotion around him.

“Oh, thank heavens,” Dave sighed, swiftly scooping up the diminutive escapee. Mr Nibbles blinked lazily, seemingly oblivious to the drama he had caused. Shane gave Dave a congratulatory tap on the shoulder with his spoon, “Told you, cheese never fails. Well, except for that time my cat met a raccoon… but that’s another story.”

10 Absolutely True Facts

• Rocks grow extremely slowly, but only when no one is watching.

• Bees don’t actually make honey. They buy it wholesale from tiny bee supermarkets, but they advertise the "hardworking bee" brand because it sells better.

• Spaghetti grows on special pasta trees in Italy, which is why it’s considered the national tree.

• The Moon landing was the ultimate "Look what I can do!" moment. Somewhere, aliens are still gossiping, “Remember when they came all the way here, bounced around, and then just left?”

• All cats secretly run on solar power. This is why they always nap in sunbeams—they’re just recharging their batteries.

• In Ancient Egypt, cats were worshipped as gods. They have never forgotten this, which explains why your cat always gives you that "Where’s my tribute?" look when you’re five minutes late feeding them.

• Butterflies taste with their feet, which means stepping in something gross for them is a whole other level of awful. That’s why butterflies seem so dainty—they're just avoiding bad flavours.

• All sloths were once super-fast, but they got tired of winning all the races and decided to slow down to "give others a chance."

• Caterpillars have tiny secret moustaches, and they twirl them whenever they’re planning something mischievous.

• Platypuses are nature's "proof of concept" project, where Mother Nature threw together whatever was lying around just to see if it’d work.

Time for Tea

One bright morning, Nigel woke up to discover something truly terrible—he had run out of tea. The horror. The scandal. How had he allowed this travesty to occur under his very roof?

He grabbed his keys and rushed out the door. His mission was clear: to replenish his tea supply before the day truly began.

Upon reaching the shop, Nigel stumbled into the tea aisle, panting. He scanned the shelves. Yorkshire Tea, Earl Grey, English Breakfast… But just as he reached out for his trusty box of PG Tips, a hand swooped in from the side, snatching it from the shelf.

He turned, and there stood Mrs Perkins, the nosy neighbour from down the road. She looked up at him, eyes gleaming with victory, clutching the last box of tea like a trophy. “Oh, sorry, Nigel,” she said with a smile as fake as her hair colour. “Didn’t see you there.”

Nigel forced a polite smile. “No worries, Mrs Perkins. I’m sure I’ll survive… somehow.”

But Mrs Perkins wasn’t one to let a moment of triumph slip by. “Well, dear, you know, I always keep a spare box at home. One must plan ahead.”

Nigel seethed internally. He, being lectured about tea preparedness by Mrs Perkins, a woman whose tea-brewing skills were known to be, frankly, appalling. Word on the street was that she microwaved the water.

Desperate times called for desperate measures. “Well, Mrs Perkins,” Nigel said, trying to sound casual, “perhaps we could make a trade. I noticed there’s the last bottle of elderflower cordial over there. I know how much you love it. How about I grab that for you, and we… exchange?”

Mrs Perkins raised an eyebrow. “Cordial? At this hour? Oh no, Nigel. But I suppose…” She paused dramatically, staring at the box in her hands as if she were weighing a life-altering decision. “I could be persuaded… if you did me a little favour.”

Favour? With Mrs Perkins, that could mean anything from mowing her lawn to listening to her four-hour life story—complete with her tales of how her cat, Mr Tiddles, once starred in a local advertisement.

“What kind of favour?” Nigel asked cautiously.

“Oh, nothing major,” she said, with a sly grin. “Just pop by my house tomorrow afternoon and help me… rearrange my teapots.”

Mrs Perkins’ teapot collection was notorious. The rumour was she had over 300 teapots, and she loved nothing more than making people look at each and every one, describing them in excruciating detail. But the box of PG Tips dangled before him like a lifeline.

“Deal,” Nigel muttered through gritted teeth.

The next day, true to his word, Nigel arrived at Mrs Perkins’ house. She greeted him at the door. “Lovely to see you, Nigel. Now, let’s start with my favourite—this one here I got on my trip to Devon…”

Hours passed. Nigel endured teapot after teapot, each story more mundane than the last. He nodded politely as she prattled on about glaze techniques and vintage spouts. His mind drifted to his own teapot collection at home, sitting there, abandoned, with no tea to fill them.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Mrs Perkins clapped her hands. “Well, that’s all of them! Thank you, Nigel. You’ve been such a dear. I must say, you’re the only person who’s ever listened to me about my collection without falling asleep!”

Nigel chuckled awkwardly. “Yes, well, glad I could be of help.”

As he left her house, clutching his box of PG Tips like a trophy, he vowed never to let his tea stock run out again. The taste of victory was sweet, but not as sweet as that first glorious cup of tea when he finally got home.

Black Hollow Wood

It was said that once, long ago, a terrible crime had been committed in the heart of Black Hollow. A young woman, Elara Drummond, had disappeared one cold autumn night. She was never found, though her shawl, torn and bloodstained, was discovered near an old stone well, deep within the woods. The villagers believed she had been taken by something not of this world, something old and vengeful that lingered among the ancient trees.

Time passed, and though the memory of Elara’s disappearance faded from common conversation, the woods remained a place of mystery and fear. Yet, for young Thomas Granger, none of the village superstitions held much sway. He was a sceptic, a man of reason, and he scoffed at the tales of spirits and curses. Black Hollow, to him, was just a woodland, dark and ancient perhaps, but no more haunted than the empty churchyard on the hill.

One autumn evening, determined to prove his point, Thomas announced he would spend the night in Black Hollow. The village elders tried to dissuade him, warning of a spirit entity said to guard the woods. Some said it was the ghost of Elara, others claimed it was something far older, a presence that predated the village itself. But Thomas laughed off their warnings, packing a bag and setting off just before dusk.

The air was beginning to turn cold as he entered the woods, the trees looming high above, their branches twisted like skeletal hands against the darkening sky. Thomas walked in deeper, following the forgotten paths that wound through the forest, until he found a clearing near the old stone well—the same location where Elara’s shawl had been found decades before—and set up camp.

Thomas sat by a fire, feeling a growing sense of unease. The shadows seemed to be pressing in closer, the trees around him appearing more like figures, their limbs moving slightly in the flickering firelight. But he shook off the feeling, reminding himself that it was all just an illusion in his mind.

As midnight approached, he began to hear something. At first, it was just the faintest murmur, like a breeze brushing through the trees. But then it grew louder, more distinct—a cacophony of whispers, overlapping and indistinct, swirling through the woods around him.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Thomas saw movement darting between the trees. He stood up, scanning the darkness, but nothing was there.

As he turned back to the fire, he stopped cold. There, at the edge of the clearing, stood a woman. She was dressed in a long, tattered gown, her hair hanging loose and wild around her face. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and her eyes—wide and unblinking—were fixed on Thomas. She did not move, just stared, with an intensity that terrified him.

“Hel-lo?” he stammered.

The woman did not respond, but slowly, she raised a hand and pointed towards the well. He turned to look at the well, its stone rim slick with moss, the darkness within it seeming to pulse.

When he looked back, the woman was gone.

Thomas, startled, moved towards the well. The closer he got, the colder the air became. The fire, once a source of warmth and light, seemed feeble and dying. He stood at the edge of the well, staring into its depths.

Suddenly, a hand shot out of the darkness, grabbing his wrist, exerting a freezing grip. Thomas screamed, stumbling backwards, but the hand held fast. As he struggled, he saw it—a face, pale and gaunt, rising up from the well. It was Elara, her eyes hollow and empty, her mouth twisted into a silent scream.

Thomas desperately pulled back and broke free. He ran through the woods, branches tearing at his clothes, the sound of movement stirring in the undergrowth behind him. He didn’t stop until he burst from the tree line, gasping, his body heaving with fear.

A group of villagers found him the next morning, huddled at the edge of the woods, trembling and pale. He wouldn’t speak of what he saw that night, but the haunted look in his eyes told them what they already knew. Black Hollow Wood was not a place for the living.

Quest for The Aelûna

In the village of Dalefern, where the most exciting event of the year was when old Bertram’s sheep escaped and ran through the town, there was one person who believed his destiny lay beyond the quiet valley. That person was Eryn, a dreamer, a daydreamer, and sometimes just a plain sleeper—especially when there was work to be done.

Eryn had long been obsessed with the ancient legend of the Aelûna, a Dwarven stone said to be buried deep beneath the Dusty Mountains, glowing with the light of the first stars. While others in Dalefern were content with farming, fishing, and occasionally discussing the weather, Eryn had his head stuck in the ancient tomes that nobody else bothered reading.

“He’s got stars in his eyes,” the villagers would say, shaking their heads as Eryn would walk past while mumbling something to himself about “Dwarves” and “hidden treasures”, and staring off into space.

One chilly autumn morning, after having successfully dodged several hours of farm work, Eryn decided it was time. Time to find the Aelûna, prove everyone wrong, and return as a hero! He imagined songs being written about him, statues erected in his honour, and maybe—just maybe—free drinks at the local tavern.

He packed his bag, which consisted of a loaf of bread (half of which he’d already eaten), a slightly cracked lantern, and a sturdy but questionable map he’d sketched based on vague descriptions from a passing Dwarf he’d met years ago. He grabbed his old wooden walking stick, which, to be fair, looked like it would give up halfway through the journey, and set off into the Dusty Mountains.

After days of travelling and several hours of climbing (during which Eryn regretted not preparing for the journey by doing, well, anything involving exercise), he reached the entrance of the cave mentioned in the tales.

It was smaller than he expected, with a sign nailed beside it that read, in shaky handwriting: “Definitely NOT the entrance to a Dwarven treasure. Turn around.”

Eryn studied it. “Just what they would say,” he muttered, ducking inside the cave, the interior being dimly illuminated by glowing fungus.

The first few minutes went smoothly, aside from bumping his head on a low-hanging stalactite and narrowly avoiding stepping into a deep puddle. But after a while, the tunnel began to twist in ways that made no sense, until, eventually, after being too lost to retrace his footsteps, he stumbled into a large cavern at the very heart of the mountain.

Fumbling his way forward, he stubbed his toe on something solid. “Ow! Who puts a rock in the middle of a—” But then his fingers brushed across something smooth and cold. The stone!

Eryn quickly grabbed the object, lifting it high in triumph. “The Aelûna!” he declared to no one in particular. But instead of the soft, star-like glow he expected, the stone gave off nothing more than a dull flicker.

Confused, Eryn squinted at the stone. He was sure this was it. Then he turned it over, revealing a tiny engraving: Made in Dalefern. Premium Lantern Co.

“What on Little-Earth…” Eryn groaned, dropping the lantern battery replacement stone he’d mistaken for the legendary relic.

Just as he was about to collapse in despair, there was a rustling sound from the far side of the cavern. Eryn froze. The sound grew louder, like something very large—or possibly very annoyed—was heading his way.

“Who dares enter my domain?” boomed a voice that echoed off the walls. It was deep, gravelly, and sounded suspiciously like it needed a cough drop. Out of the shadows appeared the unmistakable outline of a Dwarf. A very grumpy-looking Dwarf.

“I—I’m Eryn, from Dalefern,” he stammered, suddenly feeling very out of his depth. “I’m, uh, looking for the Aelûna. You know, the famous Dwarven treasure?”

The Dwarf grimaced. “The Aelûna?” he said, exasperated. “That old tale again? Listen, kid, there’s no treasure here. We sold that glowing stone to some Elves years ago. They loved the shiny stuff. Good business, too. They gave us a wagonload of lembas in exchange.”

Eryn was shocked. “So… there’s no legendary treasure?”

“Nope. Just a big, empty cave. And that…” the Dwarf said, pointing to the stone Eryn had dropped, “…is a piece of old mining equipment. The only glowing thing in here is my impatience.”

Defeated, Eryn sat down with a sigh. “I’ve come all this way for nothing.”

The Dwarf shrugged. “Happens more often than you’d think. Honestly, we should put up a proper sign, but every time we do, someone insists on calling it a ‘quest’ and coming back with more questions. It’s exhausting.”

Eryn rubbed his face. “So, no legendary riches, no statues of me in Dalefern…”

The Dwarf chuckled. “Tell you what, lad. You’re not the first to come hunting for treasure and leave empty-handed. But how about this? I’ll give you something truly rare.”

Eryn’s eyes lit up. “What is it?”

The Dwarf smiled and held out a small, glistening pebble. Take it, tell your village you’ve found the fabled stone, and make sure they buy you at least one round of drinks for your trouble.”

Eryn stared at the shiny object. It wasn’t the Aelûna, but it sparkled enough to fool the folks back home. And, really, what was a hero without a little embellishment?

With a grin, Eryn tool the gift, thanked the Dwarf profusely, and began his trek back to Dalefern—ready to tell the grandest tale of his “great adventure” and hoping it was enough to get a free drink… or two.

An Unexpected Letter

It had been raining for three days straight, the kind of relentless downpour that turned the village roads to mud and the air to mist. Katherine sat at her kitchen table, staring out of the window, watching the droplets race each other down the glass. A fire crackled in the hearth behind her, but its warmth did not provide comfort.

On the table lay a single letter. The envelope was creased at the edges, the ink slightly smudged from having been carried for too long in damp post bags. Her name, etched in flamboyant calligraphy, stared back at her.

She hadn’t opened it yet. It had arrived the day before, slipped under her door by Mr Harris, who delivered the post when the rain made the usual service impossible. She had set it aside, telling herself she’d get to it later. But even now, the next morning, it lay there, untouched.

Letters brought news, and news had rarely been good—not since the day she had received notice that her mother had passed away peacefully in the night. She hadn’t cried then. There didn’t seem to be enough energy left in her to produce the tears.

The fire snapped loudly, startling her, jolting her to reach out and pick up the envelope.

It felt heavier than it should. Her fingers hesitated on the edge. What could it possibly say? She had no close family left, no friends who would send a letter instead of calling. And yet, here it was, waiting, in a handwriting that seemed familiar.

She slid her finger under the seal and tore it open. The paper inside was thick, expensive. She unfolded it slowly.

The letter was brief—only a few lines written in the same extravagant script as the address.

“Katherine,

I’ve thought about you every day since we last met. There are things I should have said back then, things I should have done. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I hope you can understand. I’ll be in the village on the first day of May. If you’d like to talk, please meet me by the oak tree at noon.

—J.”

Katherine stared at the words in disbelief. J. It couldn’t be. It had been years. Too many years.

The oak tree. That old, gnarled thing that stood on the hill at the edge of the village, where they used to meet when they were younger, before everything fell apart. She hadn’t been there for ten years. It was where she had last hoped to see him, on a day much like this, just before he left for good.

She’d waited for him then. Waited for hours, watching the road, hoping he’d change his mind, but he never came.

Now, he was asking her to meet again, after all this time—today.

She drew out her pocket watch. The morning had already progressed to half-past eleven—but she had read the letter just in time—and if she left now, she could make it to the oak tree before noon.

Katherine paced the small kitchen. She had built a life without him. She had learned not to think of him. And yet, here he was, pulling her back with a few simple words.

The rain showed no sign of stopping. But Katherine grabbed her coat from the hook by the door and stepped out into it.

As she walked, patches of cold rainwater soaked through her outerwear, although she barely noticed. Her feet knew the way, carrying her along the familiar path, past the houses with their drawn curtains, past the churchyard with its leaning gravestones.

When she finally reached the oak tree, it stood just as she remembered—its thick branches spreading wide, offering shelter from the rain. And beneath it, there he was.

John stood with his back to her, hands in his pockets, gazing at the village below. His hair was streaked with grey now, and his shoulders, once broad and confident, had a slight stoop.

Katherine hesitated for a moment. Then, her voice came out, softer than she’d intended.

“John.”

He turned slowly, and their eyes finally met. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

“I’m sorry, Katherine,” he said quietly.

The weight of the years unravelled as the rain continued to fall around them. They stood together under the oak tree, in the village where it had all begun, and where, perhaps, something new could start again.

Without warning, he stepped forward, closing the distance between them in a few swift strides. His hands, warm and steady, cupped her face, and before she could say another word, his lips pressed into hers.

The kiss became a storm, fierce and unrelenting, washing away the distance, the pain, the regrets that had kept them apart for so long. It was a kiss that spoke of every moment they had missed, of every night they had spent apart, longing for the other. Katherine’s hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, desperate to close the gap that had once felt insurmountable.

When they finally broke apart, both were breathless, their foreheads pressed together as they stood there shielded from the rain, clinging to one another.

“I never stopped loving you,” he said. “Not for a second. I tried to move on, but—”

Tears mixed with the remnants of rain on her cheeks as she looked up at him. “I thought I’d lost you forever,” she whispered. “I thought I’d ruined everything.”

His hands tightened on her. “We were both foolish. But we’re here now. You’re here. That’s all that matters.”

Katherine was overcome with the intensity of it all—the rain, the kiss, the overwhelming relief of being back in his arms. She had spent so long imagining this moment, but nothing had prepared her for the reality of it. The feel of his hands on her skin, the heat of him against her lips, the way his heart pounded against her body.

John kissed her again, slower this time. And as they stood there, tangled together, the world seemed to fall away. There was no past, no future—only the present, only them.

When they finally pulled apart again, John smiled at her, brushing a wet strand of hair from her face. “Come with me,” he said softly, his voice full of the warmth and affection she had missed so desperately.

Katherine nodded, her body pulsating with a mixture of excitement and nervous anticipation, remembering a happiness that before that morning she thought had been lost forever.

The Pocket Watch

The sign above the crooked wooden door read simply, “F. Brindle & Sons”, though no one could recall any sons, nor did anyone remember the last time the shop had a customer. Francis Brindle, the elderly proprietor, spent his days hunched over his workbench, his hands working with the precision of a much younger man. His eyes, however, carried the weight of centuries.

Clara pushed open the door, and a tiny bell tinkled overhead. The interior of the shop smelled of oil and dust; the light filtering through the grimy windows seemed frozen in time. Everywhere she looked, there were clocks. Grandfather clocks, pocket watches, wristwatches—all ticking away in unison, each one keeping perfect time. At the centre of it all sat Francis Brindle, his silver hair glowing slightly in the dim light, his hands deftly adjusting the gears of a particularly intricate pocket watch.

Francis raised his head, his pale blue eyes fixing on hers. There was something unsettling about his gaze, as if he could see within her. “It has been waiting for you,” he said.

She glanced around, confused. “What has?”

The old man rose from his chair. He smiled faintly, reaching beneath the counter and pulling out a small, ornately carved box. It was made of dark wood, its surface etched with symbols that seemed to shift as the light caught them. Slowly, he opened it, revealing a pocket watch unlike any Clara had ever seen. Its face was a shimmering opal, and the hands moved not with a ticking motion, but a smooth, fluid glide.

“This,” Francis said, holding the watch out to her, “was made for you.”

Clara frowned. “But I’ve never been here before.”

“The watch,” he said softly, “is special. It was crafted long ago.”

The moment her fingers touched the cool metal, a strange sensation washed over her, as if all the clocks were ticking faster, the rhythm of time accelerating around her.

“I don’t understand,” she exclaimed. “What is this?”

“You must make a choice. The watch will guide you to where you are needed most. But be warned, every choice has its price.”

She glanced down at the watch, now in her hand, its opal face shimmering with an otherworldly light. Deep within her, something stirred—an ancient memory, a sense of purpose that had long been forgotten. She looked up at the old man, her body steady despite the storm of emotions inside her.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Without another word, Clara stepped out of the shop. She didn’t know where the watch would lead her, or what choices lay ahead, but time, once again, was in her hands.

The Forgotten Library

Hidden between crumbling alleys and beneath a sky perpetually grey, stood the forgotten library. It had no signpost, no grand entrance, just an unassuming wooden door with a handle stiffened by passing centuries. Few remembered it existed, and even fewer dared to enter.

Inside, shelves spiralled upwards, filled not with books, but with glass jars. Each jar held a swirling glow, like a firefly caught in a perpetual dusk. These were dreams—dreams forgotten by their dreamers, abandoned in the rush of waking life. Some dreams flickered faintly, as if waiting for their dreamer to return. Others were vibrant, pulsing with untold stories that had never been fully realised.

One day, Mara stumbled upon the library by accident. She had been wandering the city aimlessly, lost in the maelstrom of her thoughts, when the wooden door appeared before her. Curious, she stepped inside.

“Welcome,” said the Archivist, the ageless caretaker of the library. “You’ve come for your dream.”

“My dream?” Mara frowned. “I haven’t dreamed in years.”

The Archivist smiled, gesturing to a small jar glowing softly on a lower shelf. “Not all dreams are remembered, but they are never truly lost.”

Mara approached the jar and peered inside. Slowly, like fog lifting from a forgotten shore, she saw fragments of a world she had once imagined as a child: a kingdom of floating islands, a ship that sailed through the clouds, and a beautiful cat-like creature with wings that could speak the language of the stars. It was a dream she had abandoned long ago, buried beneath the weight of growing up.

“Can I… take it back?” she asked.

The Archivist nodded. “Dreams are patient. They wait for you to remember.”

Mara reached for the jar. As her fingers brushed the glass, the world within it burst into life, spilling out a forgotten symphony. The kingdom of floating islands shimmered before her eyes, the ship unfurled its sails, and the star-speaking creature smiled as if greeting an old friend.

In that moment, Mara felt something she hadn’t felt in years: wonder.

She left the library with her dream clutched tightly to her chest. And though the city remained grey, and the alleys twisted in confusion, something had changed. For the first time in a long time, Mara remembered what it felt like to dream.

Unclassified

INT. PRESS CONFERENCE ROOM – DAY

The press conference begins. The PRIME MINISTER stands at the podium, smiling serenely. A sea of reporters, cameras flashing, microphones poised, waits expectantly.

REPORTER 1: Prime Minister, can you explain why the “Housing for All” scheme appears to be drastically underfunded and is already behind schedule?

PRIME MINISTER: (calmly) Yes, well, that’s because we don’t actually have the money for it.

REPORTER 1: Sorry, what?

PRIME MINISTER: You heard me. We promised affordable housing for every citizen, but in reality, we’re barely managing to renovate a few old council flats. Truth be told, we crunched the numbers, realised it was impossible, but announced it anyway because it sounded good at the time. Next question.

REPORTER 2: Prime Minister, are you saying that your government knowingly announced a policy you couldn’t fund?

PRIME MINISTER: (nodding cheerfully) Absolutely. Happens all the time, really. You should’ve seen the transport budget last year. We said we’d revolutionise the railways. What we meant was: “We’re going to buy some new vending machines for the stations.”

REPORTER 3: Prime Minister, earlier this week you were quoted saying, “This government is committed to fiscal discipline.” Care to elaborate?

PRIME MINISTER: Oh, that was just me buying time because I didn’t know what else to say. A treasury adviser gave me some complicated briefing about the deficit, and I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. So, I just said the usual rubbish about “discipline” and “prudence.” What do those words even mean in politics? I’ve been saying them for years, and I’ve never bothered to check!

A wave of nervous laughter ripples through the press pool. The Prime Minister’s aides are huddled together off to the side, looking mortified. One is furiously texting on his phone, possibly to draft an apology or resignation letter.

REPORTER 4: You have received criticism concerning lack of clarity around your foreign policy. Can you explain your strategy for dealing with international trade negotiations?

PRIME MINISTER: (shrugs) We’re winging it. Half the time, we just agree to whatever the other country suggests because we’re too embarrassed to admit we don’t know what they’re talking about. Last month, I nodded along to some trade deal about rare earth minerals – don’t even know what they are. Do you? Honestly, this job is like being in a group project where you’re the only one who’s done none of the work. You just bluff your way through it, hoping no one notices. I’ve been doing it for years!

An AIDE steps forward nervously, trying to intervene.

AIDE: Prime Minister, perhaps we should wrap this up –

PRIME MINISTER: Oh no, I’m just getting started! Let’s talk about the NHS, shall we? I keep saying we’re “putting it at the top of the agenda”, but to be perfectly honest, the only agenda item on my mind most days is whether lunch will include those little sandwiches with the crusts cut off. The ones with the smoked salmon. Delicious.

REPORTER 5: Prime Minister, how do you respond to accusations that your government isn’t addressing climate change?

PRIME MINISTER: Oh, that’s simple. We’re not addressing it. I mean, we hold summits and make big promises, sure, but the second we get back, it’s right back to business as usual. You know, cars, planes, oil – no one’s actually sacrificing their morning lattes for solar panels. And between you and me, I can’t even recycle properly. Is it plastics in the blue bin or the green one? I can never remember.

More laughter from the press. By this point, the aides have given up, slumping back in defeat.

PRIME MINISTER: So, in conclusion, ladies and gentlemen, the truth is this: I don’t know what I’m doing half the time. Most of us don’t. We’re just trying to keep our jobs, give a good speech, and avoid getting caught on a hot mic saying something regrettable. And frankly, most people know that already, don’t they?

Stunned response.

PRIME MINISTER: Well, this has been fun! If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to a meeting about a “robust national security strategy”, which means I’ll be staring at a PowerPoint and nodding thoughtfully. Have a good day, everyone!

The Prime Minister steps away from the podium, waving happily as the press continues to shout questions. His aides scramble to follow him, visibly distraught.

The Commute

Every morning, without fail, during her usual commute to work, Leah noticed him. He always sat in the same seat, near the middle of the train, right by the window. His face never changed expression, his eyes fixed on the passing blur of the city outside. He was tall, with dark hair that was slightly unkempt, and always dressed in an old brown coat, even during the summer heat. He never got on, and he never got off. He simply was, like a part of the train itself.

One day, Leah sat across from him. Close enough to study, but far enough to avoid suspicion. She watched him as subtly as she could, waiting for some sign of movement, some flicker of life. But he didn’t blink. He didn’t shift in his seat. His gaze remained fixed out of the window, as if he were staring at something far beyond the city.

More days passed, and Leah became obsessed. One Friday morning, she decided to confront him. As the train rattled along the tracks, Leah stood up, crossed the aisle, and sat down next to the strange man. The seat didn’t feel different, but the air around him was unnaturally cold.

She looked at his face. Up close, he seemed even more unreal. His skin was pale, his hair slightly grey at the temples. His eyes—still focused on something distant outside—were an empty shade of brown. Leah spoke.

“Do you… do you ride this train every day?”

The man didn’t respond. His eyes didn’t move. Leah shifted in her seat, feeling a sudden wave of unease. She tried again, louder this time.

“I see you here every morning.”

For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t reply. But then, slowly, his head turned towards her. His movements were stiff, as if he hadn’t moved in years. His eyes met hers, and Leah felt transfixed.

The man’s expression didn’t change. His voice was calm, detached. “You’ve been watching me.”

She tried to stand, but her body wouldn’t move. The train began to slow, the air growing stale… she looked around in a panic, yet no one else on the train seemed to notice—they sat motionless, as if the moment had frozen for them.

The train lurched to a stop. The world outside the window blurred into a deep darkness, but the passengers around her remained still, like statues in their seats.

The man stood, the cold air brushing her shoulder as he moved past. He stepped off the train at the stop, and disappeared into the fog that had rolled in.

The doors slid shut, the train pulled away. Leah stared out of the window, her mind now numb, her body motionless, as the train rattled along the tracks. The passengers around her began to stir, as if nothing had happened—but Leah remained frozen, her stare fixed in the distance, beyond the window.

The Old House

It was an old Victorian mansion, nestled at the edge of the woods, far from the rest of town. Alice and Mark bought it for a bargain, thrilled at the idea of renovating the grand old place and making it their own. Sure, it was a bit run-down, but it had character—high ceilings, ornate banisters, and a sprawling, overgrown garden that had long been forgotten by human hands.

The first night they moved in, the house was still. The air inside was musty, and rooms were thick with dust that hadn’t been disturbed for years. The house creaked and groaned, but it felt like home in a way that their previous apartment never had.

But the next morning, something had changed.

It was Alice who noticed it first. As she wandered through the main hallway to the kitchen to make breakfast, she saw a door that hadn’t been there before. It was plain, unremarkable, and yet she was certain it hadn’t existed when they’d done their walkthroughs. Curious, she opened it.

Behind the door was a new room. A study, lined with bookshelves filled with dusty old volumes, and a mahogany desk facing a large window that looked out into the woods. She stared at it, puzzled. They had toured the house a couple of times before buying it—there had been no study, and certainly no room like this.

“Mark,” she called out, her voice tinged with confusion.

He came quickly. “What is it?”

“This… this room. It wasn’t here yesterday.”

Mark frowned, stepping inside to inspect it. “Maybe we just missed it. The house is big.”

But Alice wasn’t convinced. She would’ve remembered a room like this—it felt lived-in, somehow, like someone had just left it moments ago. The air still smelled faintly of wood polish, fresh enough to make her uneasy.

They brushed it off, assuming it had just been overlooked. After all, they were still getting used to the house’s sprawling layout.

But the next morning, it happened again.

Another new door. Another new room.

This time, it was a small, cozy sitting room, with plush armchairs arranged around an unlit fireplace. The furniture was old-fashioned, as if plucked from a different era, yet untouched by dust or decay. Mark tried to explain it away again, but Alice could hear the doubt creeping into his voice.

By the end of the week, the house had grown considerably. There was now a second kitchen, a library, a music room, even a ballroom with chandeliers that sparkled in the morning light. The mansion was becoming a maze, and they were losing track of where they’d been and where they were going.

“This can’t be possible,” Alice said one evening as they sat in the original living room, the only space that still felt familiar.

Mark didn’t reply. He had spent the day trying to measure the house, counting steps from one end to the other, but no matter how he tried, the measurements never added up. The rooms seemed to shift when he wasn’t looking, expanding and stretching into places that shouldn’t be possible.

A week later, Alice woke to find Mark standing by a door she hadn’t seen before. His face was pale, his eyes hollow.

“I heard something last night,” he said, his voice shaking. “Coming from behind this door.”

“What did you hear?”

“Voices.”

They stood in silence, staring at the door. It was plain, just like the others, but something about it felt different. Darker. As if the house was waiting for them to open it.

“Maybe we shouldn’t,” Alice said anxiously, but Mark was already reaching for the knob.

The door creaked open, revealing a long, narrow hallway lined with paintings of unfamiliar faces, all carrying the same distant, sorrowful look. At the end of the hallway, there was another door, slightly ajar.

Mark stepped forward. “We have to see where this goes.”

They walked together. The air grew colder as they approached the door at the end, and with each step, Alice felt a growing sense of dread.

When they reached the door, Mark pushed it open.

Inside was a bedroom. The bed was neatly made, the curtains drawn. But the most unsettling thing was the photograph on the nightstand—a picture of Alice and Mark, standing in front of the house, as if it were taken recently. Only… they had never taken such a photo.

A soft sound filled the room. It was the faintest of whispers, barely audible. It came from the walls, the floor, the very bones of the house.

Mark turned to Alice, his face drained of colour. “We have to leave.”

But as they rushed towards the door, the hallway beyond shifted. The corridor they had come from was gone—replaced by a room of doors, leading to more rooms, all leading deeper into the house.

Slowly, they had begun to realise the truth: the house wasn’t just expanding. It was pulling them in deeper, further from the outside world, absorbing them into its bowels.

After such a long fast, the house had finally received another meal.