The Swiss sailor eyed the backpackers. I watched him as I scrubbed the burnt cheese from the back of the microwave. He sized up a girl near the kettle, ‘Are you French?’ His voice was as smooth as chocolate, ‘I am headed that way.’

When was the last time you sat quietly in a room? Just alone with your thoughts, perhaps examining your fingernails, day-dreaming about the weekend?

Mack appreciated the cumquat. Every March he appeared at my unit like an apparition, with a stepladder shoved under his left armpit, grasping two buckets with his wrinkled hands. 

Like many people I’m big on free stuff; my house is comprised of a mix of hard-rubbish furniture, second-hand electronics and my prized George Foreman that I found on the side of the road.

You were born naked. Pink and screaming, covered in amniotic juices. The nice midwife and doctor washed your bare skin. They wrapped you up tightly and handed you to your mother. That was your first naked public appearance.