Skthrack upon meine eyes; the night-sky lights up but retains its billowed menace. Above Pennington marshes those clouds in those milliseconds reveal the sharpest silver filaments—I ignore the spectacle and carry on listening to the buds in my ears where the lyric “he saved every one of us” resonates tightly with the memory of its mother song; thus blotting out the thunder rumble. I drop my gaze from what lies beyond the kitchen window and stare down at the pan that cradles a rapidly heating concoction of fats and spice. The oils are at the point of imbalance, you know in that quiet moment after sizzle, just before the jump-scare of ignition. Caution James Caution, I step away only a pace after dialling down the burner only a notch and decide my poppadom is ready to be frisbeed in. Splash.

Kitchen window has me again; this time a translucid reflection confirms the strange decision to don a trench coat while cooking—psst there’s no underwear beneath its silken lining either.

The poppadom’s cooked, coat’s fallen open, the lyrics in my buds are at “we only have fourteen hours to save the earth