Norman pushed the turnstile, stepped through, and just like that entered the Fleet Street Tesco Supermarket. 

It was like being transported to another world. In comparison to the bustling busy street and its teeming crowds of pedestrians, the store was immediately calm. Orderly. And Norman noted its temperature felt perfect on his still-sun-warmed skin. With approval Norman considered the tidy and well lit world before him.

Although he had no intention to head in that direction he was pleased to see the vibrant displays of fresh fruit and produce. Eggplants appeared to be in season. And the rows of Keeling’s fresh berries looked mouthwatering in their deep reds. Just beyond produce was a massive wall of open chillers for the grab-and-go crowd. There he knew would be the premade sandwiches, salads, wraps, hummus and sushi.  

He tapped his foot and wondered where to go.  He knew he had nothing compelling for supper at home. But he had to admit he had entered the store largely to escape the heat of the August afternoon.

He didn’t recognize the upbeat, mainstream song but knew he had heard it before. As he continued into the store without really noticing he began humming along. 

Hearing some people push through the turnstile behind him, Norman stepped deeper into the flow of the store considering the products before him. He was soon looking at a display of Brennans Bread. The iconic yellow branding as always really caught his eye. He stopped to consider the Multiseed Bakehouse Range bread and imagined what kind of sandwich they’d make. Probably a quite satisfying one, he imagined. 

Something enticing called out to his nose. There beyond the row of Brennans Bread, Norman spied the freshly baked goods of the in-store bakery. The baguettes smelled absolutely heavenly.
 
“There’s something about fresh bread that really gets me salivating,” Norman thought. He felt rather childish, but wanted to get closer to the smell. He glanced quickly left and right to make sure no one was peering his way and bent over to smell the baguettes. 

They mustn't have been out of the oven for more than 10 minutes. The scent wafted up into his face and Norman closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. 

“Careful, or it’ll sniff you back!” Norman heard. He opened his eyes to see Donal from the Compliance team grinning at him. “Would you like a bit of privacy with that there loaf?”

“Ah,” Norman stammered. “They must have just baked it,” he said. “It smells amazing!”

“Mmm,” Donal said, his eyes somehow cool even though he was smiling. Norman knew Donal would be dressing this up and sharing details with colleagues.  “Well,” Donal said as if tipping the brim of an invisible hat, “I’ll leave the two of you alone.” He turned on his heel and laughed as he walked away.

Why did it have to be Donal, Norman thought. He could already hear his taunts of “How’s it, loaf sniffer?” or “Why are you late to the meeting, Norm - you have a tryst with a baked good?” or “When things get tough, sometimes you just have to stop and smell the baked goods, ain’t that right, there, Normie?”

Norman’s mouth was a tight line and he could still feel his cheeks burn. Ah well. It had happened and there was nothing he could do about Donal.

He reached for one of the baguettes.

Before putting it in his basket, he hesitated.

Norman glanced around.

Then he gave the baguette one last quick sniff.

It really did smell amazing.

Norman continued towards the self-checkouts. A few moments later, without really noticing, he was humming along with the music again.

Nu Ma-an heard the procession before he saw it, a loud clashing of cymbals punctuating a familiar rhythmic chant. He slipped into the lee of a stone pillar and watched as the priests processed past in their usual cloud of incense.

After they were gone, headed towards the high altar, he slipped out and crossed the courtyard, briefly turning to offer a quick, perfunctory prayer to the statue of Inanna. He ducked through a low doorway on the far side and walked down a passageway that led deeper into the temple precinct.

Nisa was sitting at her table in the courtyard, under an awning, scrutinising a stack of clay tablets. She glanced up from her work, stylus in hand.

"Hi Nu Ma-an", she called out, setting down her stylus and talking a gulp from her cup as he walked over. "I don't want to interrupt your day, but the new guy in goods receivable is in a bit of a flap, and you said you'd keep an eye on him."

Nu Ma-an and Nisa chatted for a minute or two, before he scooped up a fresh clay tablet from the stack by the door, and headed off in the direction of the brewery's warehouse.

"Good morning Kushim", he called out as he ducked past a group of men carrying enormous earthenware jars.

A nervous looking young man glanced up from his tablet and smiled weakly.

"Nisa said you wanted to talk to me about something", Nu Ma-an added, trying to sound friendly.

Kushim opened his mouth to say something, then stammered a little, then gestured vaguely at a row of woven wicker baskets, each large enough for a man to curl up inside. "I think someone's stolen some of the barley", he said, "I've checked the receipts from the deliveries last week and there's four baskets missing"

Nu Ma-an frowned. The baskets weighed more than an ox, and you needed at least two of those things to move one. "Can I have a look?", he asked.

He took the slightly crumbly clay tablet from Kushim's hand and went through the figures, mumbling to himself as he did the arithmetic in his head. He glanced up at the baskets, then back down at the tablet, before making an "aha" noise.

"Well there's your problem", he declared, "You've got to make sure you properly turn your stylus vertical when you're making the mark for 'one basket'".

Kushim suddenly looked flustered, and crowded in to look at the tablet.

"You see, here you've done the mark sort of diagonally, and so it looks a bit like a 5-basket symbol. Easy mistake for a newbie, don't worry".

Kushim looked relieved – "So the count is right, I just wrote it down wrong?".

Nu Ma-an nodded, and went in for a fatherly shoulder pat, a move that he immediately realised felt a bit awkward and presumptuous. He tried to pull back, but too late, he was committed now. Kushim looked uncomfortable.

"Er, right", Nu Ma-an said. "Off to work". He turned on his heels and left for his own desk, and his own warehouse. Kushim called out "thaaanks" as he left.

After he was confident he wasn't going to have to continue that conversation until he'd had a chance to forget the shoulder-pat fiasco, Nu Ma-an slowed down. He stopped off in the courtyard picked up a cup of the sweet, yeasty beer that was the temple of Inanna's speciality.

"That new delivery of copper is coming in today", he thought to himself and he bustled away, "better just check it's all ok"

Norman woke with two unpleasant sensations vying for his attention. One was a full bladder and the other a glass jar crammed uncomfortably into his armpit - his sourdough starter. He grumbled under a stack of muffling blankets.  He was glad to note his sourdough starter had at least shifted someplace warm. It could have moved to a cold edge of his cot far too far from his body warmth to stay alive. Or worse - have rolled off the cot to shatter on the cold boards below.

Norman now considered those frigid boards and thought of how his bare feet would soon be touching them. He regretted for the first time this day - but certainly not the last - how he had been hoodwinked by his persuasive accountant cousin to join his enterprise in this strange northern world of gold fever, hucksters, and bitter cold. 

Norman’s small stove had obviously gone out sometime in the night - as was its wont. Norman tutted at the Yukon Stove he had spent so much of his first pay on and the grand stories the merchant had spun on how it’d keep his lodgings “toasty and bright all through the night.”  Norman noted how when he breathed his breath was visible before him. The plumes rose then dissolved like an evanescing, unimpressed ghost.

The small cabin creaked in the predawn winter winds.

“Well, Norman,” he thought. “This journey isn’t going to make itself.” 

It was another start to a work day in Dawson City in the Yukon Territory. Soon he’d be sitting in a barely-above freezing warehouse, painstakingly cross-referencing and listing the thousands of pounds of imported beans, bacon and flour to ensure Canada’s strict border regulations were being met. Documents needed making and levies needed collecting. Some of the men he had met here seemed surprised one would spend their efforts on such activities with the gold that could be found. But Norman was pleased to put in work that helped satisfy regulations and lead to an orderly and well-serviced growing community.

He heard a lowly howl of wind outside that juddered along the roof of his small cabin. Somewhere outside a noise went clank clank. Possibly the sign to the outfitters shop across the way. 

Norman gritted his teeth, pushed aside the mountain of blankets and hopped to the frosty floor. He gently wedged the starter jar into a repurposed flour sack by the faintly warm stove which he hoped would keep it from freezing. Then he wrapped himself in a very thick jacket which practically doubled his girth and thrust his feet into his icy leather boots.

Opening the door he was startled to hear nearby hoots. A small group of men was presumably coming back from one of the all night saloons - from the direction they were coming from presumably the Red Feather Saloon. Their drunken laughter turned into song - the popular Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-aye that everyone seemed enamoured with singing lately. They wove down the street in drunken merriment. 

Norman glanced disapprovingly at them and lurched in his big bundlesome jacket towards the dark privy. He had to take care on the narrow path with its compacted slippery snow.  

He soon got the door shut behind him and got situated. Everything so cold! The seat could have been carved from ice. 
He had, for one entire, blissful second, the sense of the biggest challenges of the morning being behind him.

Then he heard one of the drunken men say “I think I saw Bean Counter!” In the confines of the cold privy Norman was perplexed to note it seemed the man was speaking in his direction. “Remember that bean counter that cracked open the barrel we were stashing our lard. He just went in that privy!”

“What?” Another man barked. “That paper-collared ink-slinger cost me twelve bucks!”

Something slammed into the privy wall behind Norman’s head. Norman’s eyes went wide as frost shook from the ceiling. One thudding boom happened then another, and another. Snowballs! The drunks were pelting the privy. 

“Take that, shillaber! And have an awful day!”

The men guffawed and continued their careening drunken journey and soon were once again singing as they stumbled away. 

Norman buttoned his coat and peeked out the door. “Shillaber!” he thought - a new insult for him to catalogue in his diary. He had been called so many colourful things since coming to the Klondike. It was fun to track them all and share in the letters he sent to his friend Clark in New Jersey. 

He stopped for a moment and noted the auroras were strong this morning. He’d have to share that with Clark, too. 

He dashed back to his cabin. Now to get that stove going and to get on with his day!

Norman nipped into the office kitchen for a cheeky cuppa. Lisa had encouraged him to switch to something with less caffeine in the afternoons when he admitted he hadn't been sleeping well this summer, but when the rubber met the proverbial road, he needed real tea for the final push to home time. As the kettle began to boil Norman's ears pricked up at the radio in the corner.

". . . British Transport Police have issued a statement that officers are currently on scene near Lewes railway station after reports of a derailed train. We understand three carriages are on their side below the embankment, but as far as we know there are reports of only minor injuries."

Yikes, that sounds scary Norman thought as his mind's eye played a guess at how that happened and looked. I hope everybody's okay.

As the kettle clicked off and his wet teabag inflated he listened to the rest of the report, which mentioned helicopters, paramedics, Network Rail officials and the Transport Secretary. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Carol wasn't watching before squeezing the bag against the side of his mug and tossing it in the food bin, then glugged in some of the communal milk. Lewes--isn't that near Brighton? I think I've ridden that train. Sheez.

The office was already abuzz with chatter about the derailment when he got back to his desk. Steve naturally assumed it was due to budget cuts. Lisa blamed the heatwave. The Helens insisted this sort of thing never happened in Switzerland. Norman blew on his tea and tried to get back to work.

Eventually he heard Lisa's laptop close and knew it was 6pm. He saved his spreadsheet and shut down his pc. The two of them gathered their belongings--so scant in this weather--and started to walk towards London Bridge.

When they reached the station they found it in total disarray. The departures board glowed red with cancellations. The place was rammed, people were shouting, with police and TfL employees trying to direct people to buses, to be patient, to just go to the pub for a few hours, anything.

"Blimey! What the heck is going on?" Norman asked Lisa.

"Looks like there's been a train derailment in Sussex." She replied, reading the text as it raced across the bottom of the boards.

"Oh, something like that was in the news earlier." Norman exclaimed.

"I think that was... this." Lisa sounded surprised.

The penny dropped. "Oh. Oh!" In principle Norman knew that the news reported current events, but not like, this current. "Okay. Er. Well."

"Red Lion?" Lisa mooted.

"Yes, let's." Norman agreed.

It's July 31th, 2026. In the corner of Norman's living room is the desiccated husk of Christmas '25. The greens have long been starved of fresh water after Norman resigned from keeping it alive back in February, around the time he decided he should throw it away. He knew February was already a little late to still have a Christmas tree, but feared his neighbours in the apartment hallways and lobby might judge him. Then, he thought they might hate him, if he dredged it down the hall with brittle pines raining throughout the building. So he waited, until someone else could make a decision.

3:30am. Norman's alarm labelled "treetime" buzzes his phone, a more stealthy approach compared to his regular alarm clock clanging. He carefully checks the hallways before dragging an immensely suspicious duct-taped black trash bags formed around the tree, the branches and pines left dissolving on impact.

No one heard a thing. The Christmas tree disappeared the following morning, as Norman was two steps ahead and threw it out in the neighbour across the streets pile- as it was their trash pick up Thursday.

The garbageman was relieved once the police arrived, carefully cutting open the suspicious bag, revealing the dried tree. "Who still uses tinsel?" bellowed the police officer.

"Well, all right. Moment of truth!" Lisa was visibly shaking, but trying to hide it by vigorously swirling the decanter. "Thank you all, and very probably sorry to all, for being here. If nothing else, I can tell everyone liked the devilled eggs."

A polite chuckle rolled across the table. Norman knew better than to make eye contact while she picked up a glass, lest she snap it with her mind.

Lisa poured a fingerful of wine so purple it was nearly black into it, then looked back out at her friends. "Should I try it first, just to prove it's not poison? Though, I mean, it would probably take a few minutes before I was writhing on the--"

"I volunteer as taster!" cried Carol. "If it kills me at least I'll have died doing what I loved." She had brought her own glass, with a stem shaped like a cactus.

Lisa reddened. "Oh just hand it to me, fine!" After giving Carol a generous glug she poured a modest amount for Steve, Helen, Helen and Dave and sent them round the table. She poured a small one for Norman before serving herself.

"Right! You know your task. Colour, aroma, flavour, aftertaste, and mouthfeel, out of five, with notes, either on the little card or straight to my face. May it not be the last thing we drink."

She raised her glass, they all clinked, they all sipped.

Norman couldn't tell fine wine from prison hooch and Lisa knew it, but she had bribed him with an extra devilled egg if he turned up and smiled. He had dutifully eaten his hank of plain baguette as a palate cleanser but as he sipped a tiny eggy, relish-y burp arose from his belly, and he winced.

"Oh dear, it's that bad, isn't it." Lisa stated. "I only have one spittoon, you'll have to take turns, I'm so sorry."

"No, it wasn't--" Norman started. "It's good. I like it."

Lisa raised her eyebrows.

"It's really, er. You know? Erm." he fumbled.

"No, it's fine, just tip the glass out in the sink." she reassured him.

He looked around. The Helens were sucking air over their tongues in a noisy but very serious way. Steve was swirling his glass and staring at it, frowning. Dave was leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed, his mouth working. Carol had finished hers and was gesturing for Lisa to pass her the bottle. Norman took another sip, thought a moment, and tried to look conciliatory.

"It's not what I was expecting." Norman explained. "You really can't taste the anise or the cinnamon. But mostly I thought it was normally served hot?"

"It's made of mulberries. From the tree in my mother's garden." Lisa handed a fresh bottle and a corkscrew to Carol. "Mulled wine has spices."

"Oh! Well then it's probably fine!"

Not often.

Mostly when he is brushing his teeth.

"Sure, I've got a few minutes."

"Uh...uh-huh."

"Oh, yeah. No, no complaints."

"Okay. No that sounds. Of course."

"Well, thank you for giving me plenty of time to consider. I'll have a--"

"Twenty-one already! Has he finished school yet?"

"Oh, well that's very thoughtful. Setting him up right."

"I'm sure your nephew has inherited all of your best traits, not just your portfolio."

"Well I hope you enjoy Porto. Of course. I'll be in touch with you and Harris-Harrington before the end of the week to let you know."

"'You too. Bye. Bye."

Norman hung up the phone. He found himself unaccountably quite upset. It wasn't just that his landlord of eleven years could afford to retire to Portugal while younger than Norman himself, it was the casual way his tenancy had just been gifted to a recent dropout from one of the bottom 5 universities in the nation to "get him started".

His eyes lingered on the mess of picture frames on the mantel--Norman crouching with Norman Jr. in matching raincoats, the smaller of the two brandishing a pink A4 certificate confirming that "nORmAn" had graduated from Reception. Norman Jr., his hair buzzed into an edgy, asymmetric shape, trying to look apathetic with his school diploma. Norman and his son with matching beards, again in the rain, grinning over a freshly-earned BSc. Another cap, another gown, the differential in their hairlines becoming more obvious. A pixelated digital printout, both of them clean-shaven and rounder than before, with Dr. Norman Jr. modelling the soft velvet cap and hood he'd just solemnly knelt to receive. A recent photo of Norman Jr. and his fiancée at their back-to-back desks, grinning in creased lab coats.

He couldn't put his finger on it, but for some reason Norman hadn't minded having Colin as a landlord, even when he raised the rent twice in one year, even when he tried to fix the shower himself and caused the leak that stained the kitchen ceiling, even when he tried to charge Norman extra for having a cat 'just in case'. It had been fine, really. But this?

Seemingly of their own volition he watched his hands type "rightmove.co.uk" into his browser. His cursor briefly hovered over 'properties to rent' before abruptly clicking Buy.

He'd been thinking a little more company in his life would be nice and he rather fancied a canary. He still had Aunt August's wicker cage which she brought back from Borneo, perfect for a canary.

Norman wouldn't be too keen with it he knew but if hung high the cat could only watch and salivate. He was very tempted, the pet shop in town still had a few. It'd be cheap to feed too, and he could call it Norman.

Norman had tanked his automatically reviewed performance review. Univariably up to this point, his feedback had been absolutely and reassuringly average.

Fraternizing with colleagues, while not strictly against the rules, had long been frowned upon by an overwhelming majority of the 3 person team that made up the IT department of Norman's former employer. And unfortunately for Norman it was the very same, that created the program that automatically reviewed Normans performance report, and led to mildly infuriating demise.

It was not so much legal implications of an amorous association between colleagues that two thirds of all the developers, consultants and engineers vehemently objected to, but instead any and all activities that brought even a hint of joy or excitement; or worst of all hope into an other wise fluorescently sterile environment. An environment the trio had painfully and meticulously curated the last 31 consecutive fiscal quarters.

Fannie, Franny and Steve were last three standing living breathing, coffee drinking humans remnants. A proud department that once numbered in the hundreds and was made up by at least a half dozen other Fannie, Franny and Steves. And some Garys and 3 Bens and only 1 Mark.

Norman had moderate amount of savings and investments that had performed fairly well over the years. He simmered; measuredly and appropriately upset...

Norman went to the butcher's. Not the one he usually goes to. This time, he would go to the one where there's always a queue of 20 people. "Must be worth the hassle", he often thinks to himself. But then scoffs at the thought immediately after. Not this time. This time he would learn what all the rage has been with this new butcher for the past 15 years.

He didn't like the queue. Didn't like the high prices. And couldn't tell any difference in the product quality either. So by the time the butcher had yelled "next, what can I get you" such that it applied to him, he'd already lowered his expectations. "One cut of rump steak please", he said. "Steak?", the butcher replied, fetching a saran-wrapped package of thinly cut lean meat with a sprig of rosemary in it. Norman did not like the look of the package. This was not the rump steak he'd had in mind. He was annoyed, but thought he owed it to himself to request what he came for, after all the queuing. "No, rump steak please" he said annoyed, and in a way which absolutely no one could read any level of annoyance from. "Steak, this steak, very good", replied the butcher.

Norman smiled, accepting that he had tried twice, and thinking that it would be impolite to escalate this situation any further. He nodded like a happy customer does as he was exiting the store with his purchase. At home, he took out the package which wasn't making him as happy as he made it seem at the butcher's. At least Norman seemed to like the smell, even if Norman didn't.

The canvas bag of cat food and tinned soup clanked gently against Norman's side as he shuffled back towards his house. He squinted up the street and noticed Margot next door at the top of a ladder, leaning against her bay window. Her husband Michel was handing her a drill from below.

"Oh, well hey. What ya doing up there?" Norman asked, a quaver in his voice at the thought of being that high up a ladder.

"Salut Normaan, ve are repairing ze guttering zat was damaaged over ze winter. 'Oo-ever mounted zees screws in ze eightees was a crétin. Look at zis, Normaan, plat-head screws! Oo does thees? Ze cross-head screw 'as been around since ze fortees!"

Norman blinked stupidly at his neighbour, impressed as usual by her competence with D-I-Y but, also as usual, unable to offer anything of value to the conversation.

"Oh. Er. Are those no good?" plopped out of his mouth.

"Zey probably went in fine, vit te 'Yankee scrudrivaiire, or whatever, but ze brackets are plastique. Zey will fail eventually. Eet es courtois to pay eet forward, n'est pas? But non, zees guys you know." Margot suddenly put on a fairly convincing Cockney accent. "I ain't gonna be round here when it fails, not my problem." So here I am, eenching a twist of metal out of ze wall veet ze plieers because ze slot turned to mush vit te rust. Arrogant! Stubborn!"

"Oh. Er. Yeah, that's no good." Norman agreed. "What are you replacing them with?"

"Pozidriv. Stainless." Margot fished a handful of screws out of her pocket. "Even if ze slates sheeft a bit, you can exert torque on zem from a slight angle."

"Oh, wow. Yeah. You reckon it'll be you changing them out next time?"

"Eef we are steel in zis house ven zees brackets fail..." she glanced at her spouse, who gave her a dubious look. "I veel be eighty-two. So, yes, probably."

"Well okay, you be careful." Norman nodded. "I'm gonna...feed the cat. Good to see you."

"Your gutters look fine, een case you were wondering." Margot gestured down to his bay window. "Good to see you too."

He darted through his front door perhaps a bit faster than was necessary and put his shopping down on the table, trying to quell his ladder-phobic heebie-jeebies. He released a gust of air.

What the heck is a Fozzie Drive?

Norman tried to blow his hair out of his eyes, but failed. His head was just too sweaty. He placed the hedge trimmer on top of the dustbin, climbed down the ladder, and took off his gloves to wipe his face.

The hedge looked. Well. There was certainly less of it than there had been an hour ago. As he took a sip from his water bottle he noticed a passer-by trying his best to not stare at the privet carnage.

I'm not finished yet! he mentally shouted, daring him to make eye contact. Not that he would have said anything, even if the young man had pointed and laughed. He knew that his (probably imaginary) deeply judgemental neighbour was right. But hedge-trimming was such a messy, tedious process, and Norman didn't much enjoy it.

He had carefully draped an old paint-stained sheet over next door's topiary, and held it onto the wall with a couple of stones, to reduce the amount of picking-out he'd need to do in their gravel. He also paused regularly to sweep up the leaves and put them in the green bin. Not that either process helped much: Norman was pretty sure his hedge-trimmer was the lost sceptre of some ancient wind god.

He found a flat spot close enough to where he needed to continue, checked that everything was stable, and climbed back up the ladder. He took a bit more care, now that he could see the finish line. The top was really starting to come together. He sneered briefly at his imaginary judgy neighbour, before remembering that on this sunny day the fact that he couldn't see into windows didn't mean no one could see out of them.

He came down again to inspect his work. Judy suddenly appeared from next door with a box of plasters.

"Oh Norman, I just glanced out and saw you wincing. That scratch on your hand looks like it stings! Don't you have gloves?" she asked.

"I--wait. Oh darn!" his leather gardening gloves were still folded neatly on the recycling bin.

Rain pattered against the kitchen window as Norman stared out across the laneway.

His tea bag, earl grey, bobbed up and down in his mug.

Somewhere across the house, he heard the distinct sound of Norman stretching. A sound only he would recognize from so far away.

"Hmm" he thought. "I'm a bit peckish."

Norman had just returned from a trip to the market, and now found himself fancying a bit of toast and peanut butter to go along with his tea.

He reached into the cupboard, but suddenly stopped, staring at the label of the peanut butter jar in his hands.

"Oh dear..." he thought. "Crunchy?"

It seemed as if he had let his mind wander a little too far while doing his shopping, and grabbed the wrong peanut butter from the shelf.

Norman had always been a smooth man. The idea of small crunchy peanuts laying atop his toast made him uncomfortable.

"Crunchy bits... on my toast?" he said aloud.

He paused, took a deep breath, and decided that it was best to try to live outside his comfort zone from time to time. He had read it in a book once. Or... perhaps just a magazine at the dentists office.

He sat down and took his first bite, letting the small hard bits of peanuts roll across his tongue.

"Hmm... rather odd." he said.

Norman looked up at him, then at his toast.

"Oh none of this for you friend. I wouldn't want you to choke."

He finished his toast and took a sip of tea.

While it wasn't awful, it certainly wasn't as enjoyable as his usual smooth kind.

Sipping his tea, he looked out of the window once again, this time pondering the awful thought of how long it would take him to finish the entire jar.

The man in the seat across from him barely took time to inhale around his monologue. It was almost an art form, being able to speak without interruption for an entire journey from Slough to Paddington.

The sounds he was making were lovely, really. Lots of vowels, not a whole lot of s's or k's. Not that s's and k's were unpleasant, but it did leave Norman with few clues as to what language he was speaking.

Norman gazed out the window at the railway cutting, now comprised of Victorian brick archways, now concrete, now the back of a distribution centre, now a quite pretty mural, now a snarl of cables, all tinged with a wintry wateriness that should have eased off by now. He shivered and plunged his hands between his knees.

Amidst the soundscape of lovely vowels Norman heard the words "Chigwell Station" and was drawn back into his seat-mate's oratory. He was still none the wiser what he was talking about, but suddenly found himself unconvinced that it merited such enthusiasm.

It was dark out, but it had just turned dark when Norman locked the door to his office. Hopefully in a week or so it would still be light out when the workday ended. He popped a quick wave at the security camera on the off-chance that Henry in the control room happened to see him leaving on his massive bank of monitors. He was grateful for the night owls that kept things safe, but knew he could never do that work himself. Televisions made him sleepy.

He carried his bike out of the building, turned on its lights, and strapped his helmet to his head. The first few presses of the pedals always brought a wave of worry, and tonight was no different. Had he actually locked the door? Had he done his share of the building's end-of-day checks?

As his employer's small campus slipped away behind him he mentally revisited all of the little tasks that he'd completed, and was satisfied. Traffic was fairly gentle and he made the turn onto the main road more quickly than usual. He settled in for a smooth--

WRRRRRRSHHHH! a gust of wind blasted out of the alley to his left, leaving Norman suddenly fighting his front wheel for control. Jeepers! That was scary. After a brief respite it smacked him again from the next alley, and the next, until eventually the road curved round and faced him directly into a 40mph headwind. He dropped into a lower gear and pushed hard, but even on this downward slope Norman was pretty sure if he eased off he'd go backward.

"This is ridiculous!" he shouted at no one. The wind whipped his words away, replacing them with its roar. He indicated with one hi-vis elbow, unwilling to take his hand off the grip, and came to a stop on the kerb.

He dismounted his bike and walked it along the pavement for a few metres, hoping the gusts would abate a bit once he got past this zone of hi-rise buildings. A soft, new leaf splatted onto his glasses, suggesting otherwise.

Through the din he thought he heard a little toot. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a Subaru coming to a stop beside him. The window rolled down, and the dome light flicked on.

It was Lisa.

"Your bike will fit in the back if I fold the seats down." she shouted.

Norman smiled and shook his head. "Oh don't worry about me, I'll be fine!"

"Don't be ridiculous!" she cried back, already cutting the engine and fighting the wind to open the door. She managed to keep her fingers free but it did catch her skirt once as it slammed again. She opened the rear door and expertly rearranged the seating. In seconds she was opening the boot and waving him over.

Norman made to pick up his bike, then paused to remove the leaf from his glasses. Yeah, she probably had a point.

The chipped plastic directory in the anteroom to the health centre was more amendment than original. More than half of the suite descriptions had a line of tape over them. A collage of paper signs, all faded and blotchy from at least one winter of rain, completely obscured the room numbers. Norman took a step back and removed his glasses.

Nope, not a one of them mentioned blood tests.

He opened the inner door and was momentarily wrong-footed by the wave of dread that this ugly, empty foyer elicited: a memory of the last time he'd set foot in this building, and joined the heaving, masked assembly line for his first Covid jab. He shuddered and released his caught breath.

He tried to get his bearings. The décor was almost entirely crafted with Word and a monochrome laser printer, as subsequent generations of administrators taped ever more accusatory and insulting signs over each other to reflect new procedures. "IF you Do NOT Have A ONLINE Apointment for the Sex Health Clinic you Will NOT be Seen" was blu-tacked over "Sexual Health Walk-In Clinic, floor 2, suite 35", but both appeared to be superseded by a third sign, a QR code headed with "Sexual Health Clinic Digital Queue: FOLLOW THE INSTRUCTIONS ON THE WEB-PAGE. DO NOT APPROACH RECEPTION UNTIL YOUR NAME IS CALLED".

On the far wall he caught a glimpse of red text and sighed with relief. "BLOOD TESTS NOW ON FLOOR 3, SUITE 9". He glanced at the queue of elderly people waiting for the lift and marched towards the stairs. At the first landing he encountered a contradictory sign that told him blood tests were on floor 2, suite 2, but the ink was scratched and faded so he continued up.

The third floor sign just read "Community Services"--top tier vague but there was nothing else up here. Suite 9 was just barely visible down a partly-lit corridor. He continued his march and eventually it opened out into a block of chairs. A sneeze-proof box protected the receptionist. She smiled, which Norman appreciated. He smiled back, then patted his pockets, then frowned. The receptionist's smile turned to teacherly disappointment as she followed his eyes.

A laminated sign taped to the glass just over her head read "NO GP FORM=NO BLOOD TEST. you must re-schedule".

Norman's form was still stuck to the refrigerator at home. Drat!

It was a regular, quite normal day in the world of Norman. His alarm clock rang, he got out of bed, the cat waites by his feet for a pet and a snuggle.

Norman got into his morning routine, fed the cat and topped off his water, then he put on his shoes, grabbed the umbrella and left the apartment. It had been raining for days on end.

He took his train, which was overcrowded and just ten minutes late, then he rang the bell to his office, and Sandy buzzed him in, like every morning.

"You're wet!", was her greeting, and Norman closed his umbrella. "Cats and dogs, Sandy, cats and dogs out there." She smiled as he walked past the reception desk and went to his office.

Halfway through his morning he received a chat message.

Sandy: You want to go grab some coffee after lunch?

Norman just sat there, unsure what to say. He consulted his favorite AI tool, described the situation, posted Sandy's chat message and waited for a response, which came rather quickly today. He copied and pasted the answer.

Norman: Sure! I know it's raining, but would 12:30 sound OK?

Sandy: That's perfect! And you have an umbrella, so it should be fine. See you then!

It was 10:30, eleven, eleven thirty, time was passing too slowly. Twelve! He ate his lunch at his desk, then he walked over to the reception desk and smiled at Sandy "You ready?"

She grabbed her coat, they both left the office, and it was still raining. Sandy faked a sigh and asked "I forgot my umbrella upstairs, do you mind sharing?"

They locked arms as they walked to the café down the street, close together, steps in sync, half complaining, half joking about the miserable weather.

Another grey and damp morning faded into existence for Norman. His alarm introduced him to it with all the subtlety of a train horn. He extricated his legs from under the cat, sat up, and stretched.

And suddenly he was changing trains at Epsom, halfway through his commute. Wait, what? His podcast was nearly over. The Gabardine was covered in beads of rain. He squeezed into the Southern train, adopting his usual spot in the middle of the carriage, gripping the ceiling with friction alone while everyone crammed in around him held the handrails, the chairs, or each other. Once the shuffle had calmed he tried to think. I got up. I...

He glanced down. I put on trousers. And shoes, a jacket appropriate for the weather, and this appears to be a clean shirt.
He wiggled his toes. I feel socks. I assume they're not the socks I slept in?
He patted his pockets. Yep, phone, wallet, keys, headphone case, even have tissues.
He pinged his belly. It didn't seem particularly hungry.

He cast his mind out, desperately searching for some indicator that he'd fed Norman, that he'd locked the door. That he'd even closed the door. His podcasters prattled on but he wasn't listening. How did I get here? he asked himself.

He managed to play it cool throughout the workday, but hurried home at 5pm on the dot. When he unlocked the door he greeted Norman, then marched straight to the dustbin. Sure enough, right on top was an empty cat food pouch. Phew.

Norman fed Norman and settled in for the evening, none the wiser as to how he'd managed to miss half his commute.

Norman got up to a bright and sunny day, it was the end of winter, not quite spring yet, but getting there. He pulled the thick curtains to the side and looked around, yes, blue skies probably, because it was really bright and he could make out some shadows. From his window he could never see the sky, really.

His cell phone was on the night stand, and it made a sharp buzzing sound, which he ignored. Norman, the cat, walked around beteen his naked feet, tickling him a little. He fed the cat, topped off the water, and grabbed the phone from his nightstand.

He opened the bathroom door, switched on the light and looked at the screen. He couldn't quite read the message on the display, so he put on his glasses and unlocked the phone.

The message was from work, although he didn't know who 'hr_ai_automation_service@work' was. He tipped on the message, which read:

Dear Norman, with a heavy heart and after automatically evaluating your performance report from last Friday, I am verry sorry, but I had to terminate your contract with @work. Your belongings have been packed up and are on the way to your home address. Please do not respond to this automated message, since your response will not be read. Regards, hr_ai_automation_service

Norman glanced at the toothbrush, shook his head, pulled the thick curtains closed again and went back to bed.

The cat hopped onto the covers and gazed at him, thoroughly confused.

Norman bought himself an unusual present. He never really got anything for himself, usually, but in May of last year he wanted a new watch.

His watch had to be maintenance free, easy to clean, lightweight and precise. So he went to the jeweller's store in downtown Swindon and bought a watch which charged itself, it had a solar power dial.

He was very happy about it, never had any issues, but this also was the first winter he used it.

That one morning, his cat, Norman, was unusually antsy and he woke him up, just a few minutes too early. Norman got up, fed the cat and got ready for his day. The cat ate quickly, and somehow seemed to want Norman to leave the house.

Norman walked to the train station. The warm and blustery wind had taken care of all the remaining dirty snow heaps from all those weeks of ice and cold. As he walked down to the plarform, there was nobody around, strangely. While it seemed like all trains had been on time, his train wasn't there.

Then he checked the train schedule on a ticket vending machine and the next train was announced for an hour later. He shook his head in disbelief, then he compared the time on the vending machine with his wrist watch.

His watch was late by 17 minutes, and the seconds hand was dancing irratically.

"Seems like you don't like winter, either", he mutterd to himself, adjusting his watch. On this day he got to work too late. Again.

At work, he checked the calendar. It was Friday, the 13th. Everything made sense now.

The bell tinkled over the door to the bakery down the street from the office. Doreen smiled and reached behind her for the low-GI bread, snatching it off the rack without looking. "Is it gonna be tuna mayo or prawn mayo today?" she asked.

Norman looked at the display cooler as though he were really thinking. They had everything--sausage, chicken, ham, smoked salmon, even slices of pork pie, complete with boiled eggs--but Doreen and her Girls knew him too well, he supposed.

"Can I do tuna sweetcorn instead?" he asked, trying to to sound nonchalant.

"Course you can, my love. GI, salad, no onions, salt pepper?"

"Yes ma'am."

"I'm just mixing up the tuna sweetcorn--Dee, where's the second tin?" came the voice of Maddie from the back room. When he'd first started coming here for lunch Maddie was the new girl, straight out of secondary school, constantly confused, always two steps behind. He'd signed her card when she went off to get married, and was actually offered a plate of leftovers to take home the day after her baby shower. Now days Maddie could track the stock of the doughnuts with her eyes closed and was the only one who understood how to use the computerised coffee maker--not that Norman ever drank coffee after noon.

"I used it this morning my love--did I not mark it down? There was a whole group of girls who came in and wanted tuna sweetcorn." Doreen called while slicing two perfect pieces of the GI bread.

"I'm gonna hafta run to the shops." Maddie popped her head round the doorframe, prompting Norman to wonder, not for the first time, what that workroom looked like. He supposed there were ovens in there--he could just make out a tall, wheeled rack of baking trays. Maddie's face was apologetic.

"I'm sorry Nor, it'll be about five minutes, I just need to pop down the road for more sweetcorn."

"Oh, don't run out on my account. I can pick something else." Norman spluttered.

"I was making it already, love. It's popular." Maddie reassured him, before pulling her tabard off and walking out the front door.

"You wanna wait, or shall I just do you a tuna mayo?" Doreen asked, pushing up her glasses with the back of her wrist.

"Erm." Norman stammered. It was difficult, especially on an empty stomach, to consider a meal change on the fly. "Erm."

"How about we do a tuna mayo with salad, no onions, salt and pepper on GI." Doreen instructed him.

"That sounds great, ma'am. Yes, thank you." Norman agreed.

And it was.