Cat & Mouse

Date: 11/8/2025

After gobbling down a chunk of chalk-sized Altha-GPC (industrial strength, straight from the dream gods themselves), I start to feel the all-too-familiar vibrations drumming from inside me. My bones hum like telegraph wires. My ears fill with the shriek of invisible machinery. I let the vibrations build, a crescendo of madness, until — like Velcro ripping from Velcro — I will my energy body to detach. And just like that, I’m out. Well. That was disturbingly easy. “Show me GOD,” I announce — to the universe, the ceiling, my higher self, whoever’s got the best Wi-Fi connection tonight. Instant ascension. I drift upward, ghost-like, through the starry dark. Planets whir around me like disco balls, all doing their comic little dances. But wait — there isn’t just one Earth. There are dozens, all spinning in unison. A cosmic hall of mirrors. Each Earth I pass grows greener, more primal, until the last is a single pulsing emerald orb — one world, unbroken, continents unborn. I feel both awe and ache, like nostalgia for something I’ve never known. Then — darkness. Who switched off the light? I float there forever and for no time at all. No fear, no thought. Just the slow pulse of being. And then — there it is. A white light. A pinprick at first, hiding coyly in the corner of my vision, then swelling, devouring everything. Its warmth bleeds through me; fear dissolves like sugar in tea. I smile. GOD. And then— Gravity reclaims her bitch. I drop. Freefall. Air whipping through my hair, cheeks pulled taut, eyes watering. I’m plummeting back to Earth, laughing like a maniac skydiver without a parachute. When I land, I’m outside a manor. Gothic, grand, probably haunted by old money. Mat’s leaning against a stone wall, smirking like the devil’s doorman. “Shall we take a look inside?” he says. “I thought you’d never ask.” The great oak doors groan open — centuries of neglect in one arthritic hinge. Inside, candlelight flickers on suits of armour, the walls hung with faded coats of arms. Everything smells faintly of dust and judgement. We wander like two overgrown kids in a forbidden playground. Then Mat presses a bookcase. “Bet this is a secret passage,” he grins. The universe, apparently bored, decides to play along. The shelf slides back with a sigh — and we step straight into the Big Brother house. It’s launch night. The place is heaving with contestants and Z-listers. Alan Carr is mid-tantrum. “Is that all the alcohol there is?” he screeches, affronted by the pitiful selection. He storms out, hands flapping dramatically, shouting about “standards” and “professional environments.” Mat and I exchange a look — somewhere between horror and delight. Then I hear it. Her voice. Naughty Amanda. “Grow a penis, grow a penis, grow a penis.” Not again. I slink into the Diary Room for some privacy and — fine — manifest one. It starts modest but, as promised, it’s a grower. I wank myself into a small apocalypse of pleasure, years of repression detonating in a single lucid fireworks display. Meanwhile, in the physical world, my sleeping body is apparently staging an exorcism next to my snoring husband. Thank God he’s dead to the world. Explosion. Mess everywhere. “Oh well,” I shrug, “no one watches this show anyway.” But then I get an idea — call it divine inspiration or sheer stupidity. Lucid spunk = anti-aging serum? Why not? I scoop up the dream-goo and rub it into my face. My body convulses, the room trembles, the universe winks out and— I wake up. It’s Maxi’s birthday. I promised him a mouse. Somewhere, the cosmic punchline sharpens its knife. Instead of a computer mouse, I’ve come home with a small white box full of air holes. Maxi’s face drops. “Open it,” I urge, too cheerily. He does. A pink nose pokes through, sniffs, sneezes — a microscopic, adorable explosion — and out comes a real mouse, alive and twitching. “Mum,” Maxi sighs. “That’s not the kind of mouse I asked for.” Undeterred, I place the box down, hoping he’ll fall in love with it. Instead, the creature bolts — scuttling through wires, gnawing cables, Houdini in fur. Moments later, Monkey struts in, tail high, prize in mouth. The mouse dangles limp between his teeth. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper. Maxi shrugs. “Can I have a proper mouse?” The world blinks. I’m back at the depot. Of course I am. Purgatory comes with hi-vis vests. I’m loading parcels onto a York that keeps inching backwards every time I look away, like a cheeky poltergeist, playing tricks on me. “Cut it out, you bastard!” I yell. It takes off, wheels screeching, zipping across the yard. I swear I can hear it snickering. Then — crying. A baby. From the van. I open the doors. Sure enough, there’s a screaming infant strapped in a carrier. “Jesus wept,” I mutter. “What are you doing in here?” The baby glares at me like I’m the idiot. Phoebe appears, casual as you like, from the corner of the van. “Hi Mum,” she says. “Can you watch him for me? I’ve got a shift.” Since when am I a grandma? I sigh. “Fine. I’ll feed him.” Jammy toast materialises in my hand — dream logic catering, always reliable. Then I hear it. A squeak. Tiny, but insistent. It’s the mouse. Maxi’s mouse. Alive again, somehow. I scoop it up gently. Its fur is soft, warm, real. I look into its eyes — two perfect orbs reflecting twin worlds: one lush and green, the other dim, gasping for light. And in that mirrored gaze, I realise— there were never two worlds at all. Only this. Only the seeing, seeing itself.