It was an ambiguous Tuesday morning, and my baby had unexpectedly turned into a sandwich. Not even a good sandwich, just plain old ham. No chutney, no pickles, just ham. I was almost outraged.

Indeed, it was all rather irritating. One moment baby, the next sandwich. Well that was my morning gone. Instead of relaxing on the balcony with a nice steaming mug of carboxylic acid, I would have to make a trip down to El Café to see if they could do anything about it.

It was an awfully long walk from the kitchen to the front door, and even longer from the breakfast table to the kitchen door. But as my old Grampie used to say, ‘distance flies when you move your legs’, and in the end I found myself on my front doorstep after only 3 and 2/7ths steps.

It was raining snails again. Sigh, what a nuisance this morning was shaping up to be. I had my umbrella with me, but my suit was sure to get slimed anyway. And my poor shoes! They’d need a good dip in absinthe before they were back to normal.

As I left my house, I happened to catch the eye of my neighbour Brian, who was out walking his dog Charlemagne. This was sure to be as quick and as painless as something that is neither of those two things.

“Morning.” I nodded at them, whilst waving a porcelain duck, the universal sign of course for ‘another day on the 9-to-5 grind’.

“Good morning.” Growled Charlemagne at me. I will remind you, just so that there is no confusion later on, Charlemagne was the dog. Next thing I knew, the dog, Charlemagne, had inexplicably raised a paw to cover his muzzle and was saying in falsetto, “Morning. Just taking Charlemagne for a little walk, aren’t I boy? How are you this fine morn?”

“Uh… I’m good Charlemagne.” I replied then whispered to Brian, “Is Charlemagne alright? Why is he doing that?”

“What do you mean?” Said Charlemagne, still in falsetto, “You’re not doing anything, are you boy?” Then back in his usual growl, he answered his own question, “I don’t think so. I don’t know what he means.”

I looked at Brian for an explanation but he just wiggled his eyebrows, in a way which clearly said ‘Ah, the faithful hound. Canis Familiaris. ‘Tis a fickle creature, a fickle creature indeed. One minute he is man’s best friend, the next a slathering killer. Can we, as refined civilised men, ever dare to guess at such a beast’s motive? Indeed is it not hubris for us to presume understanding of any beast’s ways, domesticated or otherwise? Still it is vexing, very vexing. We share our entire lives with our canine companion by our side, but can we ever truly know what he is thinking behind those bloodthirsty eyes? I think not! Yes, though it pains me to say it, I think not!’

The snail rain was slowly transitioning into a hail of shrunken doll heads, and I did not want to stick around long enough to get caught in that nightmare, so I rushed on from Brian and Charlemagne, too bemused to even say goodbye. That said, as I was rounding the corner, I did happen to catch Charlemagne growl, “Well that was a bit rum, wasn’t it just, Brian? Well quite, Charlemagne!”

The nearest El Café was several miles away, but that was no concern to me. I just had to climb down the ladder into the Undercity, then a simple hop on the moon whale would take me practically to the shop's doorstep. The moon whale was a squeeze, as always, so laden it was with the hundreds of denizens all making their standard commute to work, the miserable, though psychedelic, commute which I had hoped to avoid today. Still, I had expected no less, so I was only mildly put out by it all. 

By the time I emerged from the Undercity, onto the flat dirty roof of the comb shop, the rain seemed to have blown itself out. Of course, the floor was littered with snail mush and creepy doll faces, but the street sweeper would soon deal with all that. And anyway, from where I was standing, it was only a short flight of stairs and a quick slide straight into El Café.

The only customer in the shop was a young woman with a titanic pile of miniscule croissants. She would obviously be no help, so I went up to the till, to see if anyone there could help me. Complacently, the only staff on duty was the manager, my neighbour Brian.

“Alright! Sorry about earlier, old pal. Charlemagne was just… well you know how he gets.” Chirped Brian. I didn’t, but was too busy to worry about that.

“Yes, yes. Don’t mention it. Now can you help me with this?” I pulled out my baby/sandwich from where it had been safely stored in my breast pocket and dropped it down on the counter.

Brian picked it up expeditiously and looked through it painstakingly. He muttered and tutted as he did so, “Hmm… I see. Huh. Not even mustard?” Finally, he looked up at me and asked, “So? Do you want to trade it in? We’ve got a new batch of wasabi and fishfinger bagels just arrived this morning, if you like?”

“No, no, no. You see the problem is, that’s my baby. It just metamorphosed this morning.”

“Oh I see! Well why didn’t you just run it under the cold tap? That’ll turn it back in a jiffy.”

“It will? I thought that was just an urban myth.”

“No-no-no-no-no-no-no-no. Look, I'll show you.” Brian wandered over to the industrial sink and turned on the cold tap, max pressure. The water shot out at an umbrageous speed, blasting bits of sodden bread and wet ham everywhere. My heart plummeted for a second, but then I saw my baby emerging from the dregs at the bottom of the sink, thank God.

“Oh. Great. Thanks Brian, you’ve been a real help. Sorry for wasting your time.” I said, slightly shamefaced, as I picked the eminent baby out of the sink.

“Ah don’t worry about it. What are friends for? Drop around anytime.” Said Brian earnestly.

As we left the shop, baby and I, the sun was beginning to poke its head around the oily clouds that crowded the sky. It was shaping up to be a quixotic sunny day. Nothing could go wrong, or so I thought. This was before the whole unpleasantness with old John McNeazel the ferret, but well, that’s a story for another time!

Five nights I have spent

Thinking, thinking, thinking

Philosophy and poetry

Ebb and flow but stop before

The good part.

On the first night I was blank, empty

It was dark and I remember nothing,

Sans thought and sans head and I could see

Nothing. And I could see nothing.

Second night passes much the same but a

Glimmer of light forms, much deranged

Third night and fourth it comes and increases,

My brain’s only hobby is selling out leases

“Seed of doubt” is now a tree

Fifth is wild and everywhere, everyhow

A storm of leaves and wind and tears

Shivers turn to perpetual pneumonia

Every sound one couldn’t imagine

A zeroth night does exist but it is sub-, no, unconscious.

Our final night is much the same, we realise life’s simple and all conscience.