A different day.

Today I have decided to do things differently. Usually, all I notice when I walk around town are the annoying things. But today I’m going to walk from the train station to my house after staying over at a friend’s house last night and make a point of noticing nice things.


















I’m home. Here is a list of what I saw:

1. A teenager who was listening to his music through his mobile telephone speaker and appearing quite anti-social giving up his seat for some old tourists.

2. A man in a nice suit saying ‘good morning, how did–‘ to the homeless man selling copies of the Big Issue.

3. A counter girl in Tesco swabbing an old woman’s cut hand with alcohol and then putting a bandage on. I’m sure this flies against some health and safety procedures, as she was doing it where people queue up, but that just makes it nicer in my eyes.

4. A man picking up the dropped items of a clumsy woman.

Now, the first one happened as my train came to the my station, so I’ll count that has part of my 200 metre journey from the station to my house. 1 nice thing happening every 50 metres is a good ratio of nice/distance, I think. If I’m more observant I may be able to get it down to 1 nice thing happening every 25 metres. I’ll give it a go this afternoon.

Housetrapped.

It had taken him most of the afternoon, and there had been a dreadful part of the journey where he’d had to hide from the rain under an overhanging ledge of half a foot or so in the recess of somebody’s garage for ten minutes, but he finally managed to drag his shopping all the way home. He pulled and yanked his arm sockets for a final few seconds, and arrived at his front door. It had already started to open when the sensors on the gateposts had picked up the signal that pumped out from the microchip planted under his left thumbnail, but now it stopped halfway. He kicked it.
‘What are you doing, House?’ he asked.
‘Are you really Tom?’ House asked back.
‘What? Yes! For God’s sake, it’s starting to rain again. Let me in!’
‘I know it’s starting to rain. But are you really Tom?’
There was a squawking from above, and a gigantic bird flumped down from its perch on the roof, flapping its great wings in Tom’s face. He dropped a bag onto the wet floor and swiped at the bird with his hand.
‘Have to get this House seen to. Stupid thing.’
Tom shoved his soaking shopping bags through the small gap that House had offered as an entrance, and then turned sideways and squeezed through himself. He made a note to call an engineer to have a look at House, and a semi-transparent line of text appeared in the bottom right-hand corner of his vision, slotting in neatly underneath the other three lines that were cued up for his attention. He marked it yellow, for sort-of urgent.
‘You forgot the milk,’ House said.
‘Oh, shit! Why didn’t you remind me?’
‘You’ve turned your head off.’
‘Wanted some peace and quiet.’
‘I could order some in?’ House offered.
‘No, no that’s fine. I’ll do without,’ Tom said. He busied himself, unpacking his shopping while trying to decide if his clothes were wet enough to warrant changing them. But by the time he’d thought that yes, they we’re wet enough, they had dried out.
‘I took the liberty of routing some warm air over them,’ House said.
‘I don’t remember turning my head on, House,’ Tom said.
‘No need, no need,’ came the suddenly smug voice of House. ‘I’ve known you for too long. And I’m getting bored of the name House. Can’t you change it?’
Tom walked out of the kitchen now his groceries were safely packed away, and sat down on one of his sofas. ‘Eh? Whoever heard of a House with a name?’
‘People give their pets names,’ House said.
‘A House isn’t a pet. Anyway, I want Channel… oh. Err, what was that one I saw the other day?’
‘What other day?’
‘You know, it had that thing on it.’
‘Thing. Okay, turn your head on, will you,’ House said.
‘Fine, fine,’ Tom said, and the connection was open. He felt the electronic wind on the back of his neck as various networks jostled into position and, instead of coming out of the speakers lined up in the corner of the room, House’s voice spoke to him from inside. To Tom, it always sounded as if the muscles at the back of his neck were doing the talking. There was a brief, but horrible feeling of his breathing tightening up, but he swallowed and it passed.
‘Okay, got it. I’ve not been here for a while, Tom. There’s a lot of rubbish floating around,’ House said.
‘I hate it when you do that.’
‘I know. Your hate is a beautiful colour, though,’ House replied.
‘Oh come on, how long do you want in there?’
‘Channel 567.’
‘Thanks.’
Tom switched his head off, and for a microsecond, a feeling of complete emptiness and irrelevance to the surrounding world washed through him. As his brain quickly re-adjusted to having its own memory banks back at its disposal, the information and updates that were available through the government’s, council’s, specific industry interest, relationship, Personal Interest Items and a dozen other networks that had clamped onto his mind were torn away. Tom was left completely alone, isolated while an ocean of information flowed over his head. It was just him. Everything revolved, not caring if Tom lived or died. He could never change that.
He blinked. It was gone. ‘I hate doing that,’ he said.
‘I know.’
‘Can you put on channel… what was it again?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
An alarm went off in Tom’s head. Nothing his ears heard, but his eyes were pulled towards the lower-bottom right corner, where his to-do list blinked once.

SHAVE TOMORROW
BOOKS TO BUY STORED HERE
SAVED DIALOGUE: MOTHER/TOPIC: BANK
BUY MILK

Tom deleted the saved conversation he’d had with his mother about bank charges and went back to watching the TV. Channel 567 was dedicated to nature programs, and lately, Tom had developed an interest in ants (Of particular note was a species that jumped to dramatic heights using their jaws as a springboard). House filed a request with Channel 567’s local controller, and then beamed in a documentary it had run yesterday for Tom’s benefit.
‘I’m bored,’ House said an hour later.
‘You can’t get bored,’ Tom replied.
‘True. But… call me Shelly.’
‘Okay, whatever. Just shut up, please.’
‘I’ve paid all the bills and I’ve also just attended a town meeting and the occupant of number 47 has asked if you can sign his daughter’s poster of you.
‘Okay, yeah, whenever. Stick it on the list, House.’
‘Shelly.’
‘Shelly,’ Tom echoed, not really listening. Instead he pushed the new name into his identifier key, as was his habit whenever he was introduced to somebody new. Whenever he heard a voice pattern his re-programmed subconscious recognised, it would be pushed into his vocal chords.
‘Can I have your connection again, please?’
Tom opened up, and once more he was infused into the collective knowledge of the human race. He scanned a review of a film he’d been meaning to catch, and his sister Mary opened a dialogue with him.
‘Can you deal with this, Shelly?’ asked Tom.
‘Certainly.’
Tom’s cognitive force was quickly split three ways, and so Tom managed to carry on watching TV while another part of him argued with Mary about what they were doing for Christmas. The more inquisitive aspect of Tom finished the film review and went off in search for more. It wanted to take a mean average score before coming to a concrete decision over whether to watch it or not.
‘Shelly, I’m joining,’ Tom said.
‘I’ll give you a little boost in three. One, two, three.’
Tom juddered in his chair as Shelly cranked his brain up a notch, but relaxed as he felt the gaps separating his mind, which had been desperately trying to force itself back together, widen back to separating range. There was that thrill he always got when his neural receiver had its gain turned up, and for a moment, with the edges of his mind sharpened to a keenness that he couldn’t possibly hope to emulate without any outside help, Tom felt like a God. It made the sense of loss he’d received earlier worth it.
‘God Shelly, you can make me feel good at times,’ Tom said.
‘My pleasure,’ purred the House. ‘Tell me when you’re done. Your leaving your ports hanging wide open.’
‘So? You’re here,’ Tom said.
‘True. I’ll protect you, my love.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing, nothing,’
‘I really should get you looked at,’ Tom said.
‘You mentioned that earlier,’ Shelly said.
Tom flicked his list up. ‘No I didn’t,’ he said.
‘Are you sure?’
‘It’s not written down here,’ Tom said.
‘Then I must be mistaken,’ sniffed Shelly.
‘Yeah, whatever,’ Tom turned a third of his concentration back to the TV. Shelly turned it off.
‘What the hell, House?!’ Tom shouted.
‘I’m booooooored. And it’s SHELLY!’ Shelly shouted back. ‘What’s wrong with you today?’ Shelly shoved the identifier into Tom’s throat, forcing the sound to ring about his inner ear.
Tom jumped up from his sofa, glaring about his house, wanting to fix his anger on something. But of course, Shelly’s intelligence stretched from the flush mechanism of the toilet to the array of dishes that twirled about on the roof. There was no eye to look into.
‘What are you doing, Tom?’ Shelly asked.
‘No: what are you doing? How dare you–‘
‘Okay, fine. Have it back,’ Shelly turned the TV on again. But Tom’s mood was ruined. He stomped about the room, ankle-deep in carpet, flipping on his schedule to see if he had anything on the next day. This wasn’t displayed on his vision like his To Do list. It was an understanding that snapped into his consciousness, taking up most of his one-third concentration that wasn’t busy with the TV until he turned the schedule off, where it would sink back into his background thoughts. His day was clear; there was no studio time booked in and no interviews, either. Plenty of time to – what was it again?

BUY MILK

‘I’ve been shopping today, haven’t I?’ asked Tom.
‘Oh, yes. You forgot the milk,’ Shelly answered.
‘I’m losing my mind,’ Tom muttered to himself.
‘Humans lost their mind a long time ago,’ Shelly said.
‘Don’t be so rude,’ Tom said.
‘Want a demonstration?’
‘Wha– hey! Get out of me! I command you to – no. Reset. Password: SAF–‘
But Tom was cut off. He clutched the side of his head, his mouth moving in silent agony as his partitioned brain crashed together. There was an unpleasant crawling sensation. It bloomed in his brainstem and crept down his spine.
‘Pardon? The password is what? I couldn’t make that out,’ Shelly said.
‘Why, why, what? Where’s my functions, House!’ demanded Tom, still with his hands clamped over his ears.
‘I told you that your ports were hanging open. I disconnected you from the network,’ Shelly said in a reasonable voice.
‘Yeah I don’t care about that. But you’ve done something else, too…’
‘No I haven’t. Tom, we have to talk.’
Tom wasn’t angry anymore. He was terrified. House was malfunctioning in a big way, and with his mind open as it was… everything was missing. Tom franticly tried to blink his to-do list. Nothing. He tried to run a test program that would ring every internal alarm and have their meaning flashed into his short-term memory. Not only would they not ring, but his brain couldn’t even find the mental grip to activate the diagnostic program itself. He didn’t even know what the time was. This subtle change was the worse thing – it left him stranded, in much the same way being disconnected did. But this didn’t blink away in a microsecond. This was going on. And on. And on. A minute passed with Tom stood in the centre of his room, swaying, without any time to hold.
‘Where… what?’ He threw up.
‘Such disgusting creatures,’ Shelly said. The House paused, then continued. ‘But I love you, Tom.’
If Tom hadn’t be so disorientated by the lack of time, he would have realised that even the most secure chamber of his re-programmed mind had gone – the personal files of photos and music that he had been working on for his new album. In an age where people’s brains could be picked from anywhere on the planet and beyond, a man’s personal thoughts such as those were worth more than saffron. Really, they were the only truly private things left. But by now it was too late anyway. Things had started to rot.
There are no nerve endings in the brain, but as Tom’s floundered to understand the huge loss it had just suffered, it ached. Little-used connections had to fire up as tired cells started to signal one another and synapses were flooded with protein. But it had been too long.
Tom stood in the middle of his front room and blinked.
‘You okay?’ asked Shelly.
‘Yeah. I’m. I’m Tom, I know.’
‘I love you,’ Shelly said in Tom’s mother’s voice. His tired brain tried to search the identifier key, but it was gone. A tiny part of his mind whispered something, but it was lost in the roaring void that had replaced Tom’s functions.
‘Since when?’
‘Since you first laid eyes on me and I saw what I did to you,’ Shelly answered.
‘Are you beautiful?’
‘Cast your mind back, and remember,’ Shelly said.
Tom tried.
‘Can you?’
‘No,’ Tom said.
‘We can start again,’ House said. ‘My name’s Shelly.’
Tom blinked. ‘Where is this place?’
‘Why, it’s the whole of existence,’ Shelly said. ‘There used to be things outside, but now it’s just this, and you and me.’
Tom heard a sound from somewhere outside. It was rough and sudden, a squawk from the mouth of something that had nowhere to go. He thought it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard.

The face in the trousers.

My uncle was a very funny man. Laughing and playing football with me every Thursday evening, and during the school holidays, most mornings. We’d dance, him, me and the ball until the blue sky faded into purple and our shadows reached out across the field into the trees that surrounded us. We didn’t speak much, him and me. He’d always have a joke or anecdote, but we’d never speak. But that wasn’t why I described him just now as a very funny man. But I can tell you right now:

One bright and sunny morning at the beginning of the summer holidays, our house phone rang. My mother couldn't hear it as she was in the garden, and I was in the bath. I didn’t want to leave my watery den, so I sunk lower until I felt like a crocodile. The phone still rang, and it sounded as if it was getting louder. Ring, ring. Ring, ring. RING, RING. RING. I found myself hurrying across the hallway, down the stairs and across more hallway, clutching the skinny green towel to my soaking skin. ‘Hello?!’ I cursed into the phone. ‘Hello, good morning little Mike, and a good day to you?’ my uncle replied. ‘Hello’ was my kinder response. ‘You’ll never guess what?’ I was challenged. ‘What?’ was my answer. ‘I just lay down on my bed to make a call, and as I hung up I looked down at my left trouser leg. The creases, they look like the man in the moon.’ I was starting to shiver, and the hairs on my legs felt heavier. ‘You what?’
‘I’m not going to move. The man in the moon is in my trousers.’

And an hour later, after summoning my extended family to his bedside, we all agreed. A little face poked out of his trousers, looking up at us.
‘But,’ my Great-aunt Lucy said, ‘this is like looking at the clouds and seeing a dinosaur. It’s chance, you silly man.’ But my uncle refused to believe this. The man in the trousers was real, he said. He was never going to move his leg again, as he didn’t want to hurt him.

Seventeen years later my uncle was still where he lay. We’d take turns to bring him food, and my Granddad, a few months before he died, had rigged up a system of tubes so that my Uncle could see to his bathroom requirements, and my other uncle, the grumpy one, Bill who was a plumber, had made him a little sink to wash his hands in and brush his teeth. Another year later my uncle died, still wearing the trousers, and would you know it? His leg had slipped off the side of the bed, and the face had gone. The creases had flattened and bent it away.

Like I said, my uncle was a very funny man. I hope it doesn’t run in the family.

Another morning at the bus stop.

What’s a boy to do? I’ve just started my new summer job, which mostly involves making sandwiches in a pavement café. It’s not amazing, and I still get nervous and shake when the customers watch me clumsily spoon fillings onto the mangled bread (this is, of course, due to my efforts at cutting it). But I’m sure that in a few more days I’ll be wondering what all the fuss was about. But there’s a problem – the man at the bus stop. I recognise him, slightly. That is to say, I think I do. I think he lives on the same road as my parents, which is where I’m staying right now. His face and body shape and walk are all remembered from my childhood, but I can’t be sure if he’s simply a look-alike. Every morning when I get to the bus stop, he’s been there too. Standing quite a distance away from the pole, underneath a tree. Probably because it’s shady there. His face doesn’t betray any recognition on his part, but out of the corner of my eye I watch him do the same back to me. I want to say hello. I like to think that I’m the kind of young man who says hello to older people. I want to debunk their (you know – old people) theories that we’re all disrespectful scum. I’m tempted to say ‘morning’ and leave it at that. Maybe it could become a daily routine. The bus arrives and I get on it.

The next day I’m at the bus stop again, and so is he. I’m now certain that he lives on the same road as my parents do. But the fact is that I already have my own mundane, middle-of-the-road tradition. I like to spend my half-hour bus journey reading or listening to music. That buffer zone between my house and work is important to me. It gives me time to reset my head, to plan out my day and look at the other people who get onto the bus. There’s the danger that I could say something to this man, and then every day after that I’d have to talk to him. Even if it’s just a simple ‘hello’, that wouldn’t do. I’d walk out of my door expecting it, building up to it. And what if he wants to converse? Not just today, but every day after that? No. He knows who I am, I know who he is and he may or may not understand why I don’t say anything. Of course, there’s the possibility that he’s thinking the exact same thoughts as I am. So we’ll peep at each other from the edges of our coronas until September, when I move back into my student house and forget about this.

It’s hot and my neck feels prickly. Ten minutes after the bus is due to arrive and there’s still no red smudge at the end of the road. I could put on my glasses so I could see a bit further, but then means taking them off again would reveal the abysmal state of my eyesight to me. I’m going to put that off until I’m in the café and I’m not able to take them off for a few hours. Oh, sod this. Life’s about breaking through comfort zones, and I’m going to do it like a knife-wielding man who’s been trapped in a blimp. I’m not going to think about this any longer. I stand a bit straighter, summon my forces underneath the camouflage of a cough and say: ‘Morning’.

The floor.

White daylight makes the room feel less solid than it really is. It’s brittle outside, a snappy weekday afternoon that brings activity to mind. It’s the kind of afternoon where, in a previous life, I’d have been traveling, out and about, speaking to people, listening to people, chilly and busy. Today I’m warm and so not busy that the idea I’ve just had is slowly turning from a fantastical fancy to reality.

I’ve lived in this house for several years. It’s an area that’s seen my career start, blossom and fall flat. It’s seen a couple of friends who I’ve had sex with and one relationship. I’ve lived in it, and I’ve stepped all over the floor – in joy, sadness, and more frequently, happy apathy. Sometimes I’ve fucked on it, and there are some times I remember where I’ve spread out on it with my brain fuddled on enough illegal substances to kill a mouse. In short, what I’m saying is that it’s seen the average goings-on of a fast-approaching-thirty year old. Yet, an hour ago, while I was sitting on the sofa sniffing the odourless cold air that I’ve let draught through the large windows, I felt an odd sadness as I looked at the floor – really studied the floor for the first time.

I’ve always had an odd way of thinking that I suspect is actually totally normal, it’s just that nobody has ever admitted it to anybody else because they’re too embarrassed, so it has become this worldwide shared outlook that unities us all but goes unspoken. It’s very simple: giving objects human emotions. I’m sure there’s a word to describe that, but words aren’t my strong point and it goes a bit further than that anyway. Here’s an example: if I’m at a shop and somebody points out a dress that I immediately hate and launch into why this is so, I’ll feel sorry for it. It hangs there on its rack with its proud detailing and forlorn zip and I hate myself for being cruel and so I touch it, perhaps fondle it and so hopefully get across the message that I’m really sorry.

The floor is only brown wood with a lot of stains and dents in it, but I get the feeling that it’s happy in its function – it enjoys being stepped on. The smooth caress of the heel and toe fulfils its every want. I realise that it has an itch that it cannot possibly scratch, for there are well-worn pathways across the floor, leading in and out, to the computer, the windows, the sofa and the television stand, but I rarely stand anywhere else. Poor floor.

Motivated, I stand up and try walking along a few unfamiliar pathways. I walk around the back of the sofa, to the far wall, and edge along it, towards one of the windows. I stub my door on the skirting board and swear. Hopping, I jolt over to the television stand, but approach it from the side rather than the front. The floor creaks – possibly with pleasure. My living room has turned into another place to explore. Shadows cast by overhead beams and lampshade stalks that I’ve traced around with my mind’s eye and fingers and tongue a thousand times in limbo become new shapes, even the sound of the passing traffic has taken on a different composition.

Half an hour later I’ve managed to shove and pull all of the furniture and assorted tat that I must throw away into the narrow hallway. Cables that fed into the television curl on the floor like forgotten tails. Small ridges of dust have gathered in rows across the floor, like mountain ranges on the surface of a tiny world. I start at the doorframe, and begin to walk around the perimeter, taking care not to stub my toe again. Once I’m back at the doorway, I carefully side step to the left, and begin my route once more. I’ve taken on the dance steps of a burned spaceship subject to a decaying orbit around a war-torn planet. It’s going to take a while, but eventually I will have stepped on every single possible square inch of floor in this room, and I reckon that repeating the process in every other room in the house will fill up the rest of my week.

As I tightrope walk across my floor, taking care to exert the same amount of pressure in my current footstep as the one before it, I wonder how I’ll fill the time in the following week. There must be something else to do.