before they were even born, a perfect Charleston and healthy young knees.

In a Victorian Christmas card, strolling down an avenue with a cat in a big black pram.

The clock can be paused by a full schedule or by awful things happening to other people. 

Whenever someone gives birth onstage, the yellow boat in the bath wallows.

The baby I will probably never have is eleven, and she’s discovered this old band that gets her in a way I never will.

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

The bad therapist.

The bad therapist who?

Do you think the reason you are so sad might be that one day your mum won’t be here any more?

Part of my father’s femur and tibia being replaced with metal while he listens to the saw and whistles cheerily.

A chrome table covered in everything that could go wrong.

The boundaries of a body in time, my body in a boundary of time.

I am ashamed of my spontaneous happiness.

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

All of your imaginary babies.

All of my imaginary babies who?

A bright silk parachute full of my child.

Doubtless she is imagining futures for herself that have no basis in real life.

I can only smile at her naivety and offer crispy duck pancakes.

What do you get when you cross a clock with the knowledge of a body?

My mother’s voice on hundreds of CDs, taken to the tip because the house is full.

A child dancing on a sheet of ice.

In a Victorian Christmas card, with a cat in a black pram.

A nervous breakdown, ha ha!