The chemical reaction pouring the mini-jug of milk onto my cereal sparks a memory: "Snap, crackle, pop!" Growing up, Mum bought us bland wheat cereals for breakfast. "You need the fibre," she'd say, silencing complaints and requests from my sisters and me for more popular brands.
Less than forty-eight hours after receiving her online order, Third Age Cybertronics delivered Jack to Daisy, a sprightly centenarian who purchased the Advanced Companion Droid to help her with household chores and carry her bags when travelling.
Eighteen-year-old Hugo glanced up at the train station clock. It seemed time had stood still, with the minute hand barely moved since he'd last checked. He confirmed the time on his watch and then looked at the departure board, breathing a sigh of relief. His train was running on schedule.
Annabel loved her crochet samplers, her porcelain miniatures, her creepily-staring dolls, but she worshipped her spoons. She bid them good night, every night, and she stopped and stared at them every single day, sometimes finishing a nice cup of tea whilst standing unsteadily in front of them.
"In space no one can hear you scream. But what if you're deep in the backwoods, in an isolated cabin on a dead-end trail?" Karen set aside the book. A horror story was not ideal reading for the off-grid log cabin Peter had booked for their thirtieth wedding anniversary weekend, especially as she was alone in bed.
If you ask me, the Moon is the best object in the night sky. And you don't need an expensive telescope to observe it. A pair of binoculars does the trick. I'm looking at the Moon now, leaning against a wall to steady my hands, and it's a beautiful sight. No wonder it inspires poets and lovers.
I'm getting too old for this. My speechwriter's pulse quickens as the PM mounts the flag-decked stage, flanked by senior ministers and mining industry executives, to announce her government's green coal plan. Panned by environmentalists and scientists, polling suggests it could be a vote winner … if the PM nails my speech.
Pepper gingerly slides a paw over the line his owner has painstakingly pointed out as uncrossable. Like many humans, Rosemary purchased a pandemic dog during the loneliness of lockdowns, paying two months' wages for this poodle-cross-something-or-other but vowing it would be an outdoor dog.
Cassie lay perfectly still in bed, staring at the shadowy shape on the ceiling overhead. A bulky body and eight legs, a spider, but this wasn't Incy Wincy. It was a huntsman with long hairy legs, needle-sharp fangs, and a jump so powerful that if human, it could win gold at the pole vault without a pole.
