Probably Tuesday

It's about nine o'clock. Not that I can be sure- time's not as
reliable as it used to be. Max isn't in bed when I wake up, but then
again, he hardly ever is. Today's our first anniversary- too much to
hope for that he'd care, or even remember.

I open the bedroom door and walk out in the kitchen. A few knives and
forks dash from the table into the open drawers. Looking out of the
window, I see the old oak tree, swaying slightly beneath the windless,
purple morning sky. As I expected, there's Max, draped asleep across
one of the lower branches. The door which used to lead to the lounge
now goes into the garden, although sometimes it leads to the study. I
walk through it and find myself outside, with the grass glowing a
gentle blue beneath my feet. I found it beautiful at first, but now its
somehow depressing. The fragile light seems to drain the colour from
the flower beds, making everything look a dismal grey.
'Max ?'
No reply. He doesn't open his eyes, but his tail twitches. He's
awake.
'Max, you've got to get up now.'
His eyelids flicker. 'Hmph.' he says.
He says that a lot. Its not that he can't talk- he's perfectly capable
of it. He just doesn't like to make an effort to communicate.
'C'mon, I'm making breakfast.'
His eyes flick open, burning like a pair of greenish-blue gas flames.
He stretches (I still don't know how he manages it without falling
off), and then jumps down to the ground, staring at me
expectantly.

I scrape the cold sausages and the scraps from last night onto the
plate on the kitchen floor. After what happened to the rabbit next
door, I've learned the importance of feeding him as soon as he wakes
up. The neighbours still aren't talking to us, though.
'We're going to the shops, Max. I want you to help me.'
He answers me with a suspicious stare.
'The shops, Max. To get food.'
Max perks up a bit. Food is about the only thing which motivates him.
He follows me to the car, and after a bit of coercing (he doesn't like
cars), gets in the back.

It's pretty busy in the supermarket carpark, and annoyingly, a car
lands in the space I'm just about to back into. I find it so unfair
that some people use their advantages like that. As we're about to go
into the shop, the landscape suddenly goes... fuzzy, for want of a
better word. I know what this means, and so does Max, who is hissing
and spitting at my side. By the time it clears, we are standing in a
cobbled street, and are very nearly run over by a horse and
carriage.
'Stay here, darling. It'll be over in a minute' I say hopefully.

Women in bulky skirts, and men in riding breeches are beginning to
point and whisper. I expect a woman wearing jeans accompanied by a
half-dressed roughly human man are not quite de riguer in the
Nineteenth Century, or whenever this is. It would probably be better if
we didn't stand right in the middle of the street. As I drag Max
towards the pavement, the background fades out and in again. Timeslips
are pretty tiresome, and can be downright dangerous if you get caught
in them for more than a few minutes. You're generally safe if you stay
in the vicinity of wherever you appeared, or that's what it says in the
government leaflet, anyway.

In the frozen food section, Max gives me that look which I have come
to know, and in circumstances like this, dread.
'No! We can't! Not here!'
'Why not ?' he answers- his first words of the day.
He begins to unbutton my shirt.
'I said, no!' I almost yell, and a couple of people look round as I
hastily button my shirt up again.
'Maybe later, OK'
'Hmph.'
I wouldn't mind about this habit of his, its just that it manifests
itself at the most inconvenient moments.

He stares at me longingly for a while, but by the time we get home,
he's forgotten all about it. I sit on the sofa, which has been ravaged
by Max clawing it. I could take Jonno scratching it from time to time,
but Max is somewhat larger than your average household mog. There's a
programme on telly later about The Switch, but the habit of things
coming out of the TV and into your living room makes watching it an
occasionally dangerous pastime. Everyone has their own theory about The
Switch, and what caused it. The big rumour going round is that its
something to do with some American scientist fiddling around with some
kind of inter-dimensional interface thingy. Max was a scientist... he
would've understood.

Like everyone , I remember when it happened, and where I was at the
time. 5.33pm, Thursday the ninth of June. I was in the kitchen marking
4A's creative writing, Max had just got home and was by the sink,
opening a tin of 'Kitticat' for Jonno. There was a flash of this colour
which I just can't describe. I'd never seen it before or since. And
that was it- Reality, well, Reality just stopped.

At first I wondered whether The Switch had killed everyone, or perhaps
just me. But this isn't Heaven... or Hell. Most of all, its like being
in one of 4A's stories. Its great for the kids, most of the love it,
but me? Sometimes I feel bitter that I didn't change. I can't fly,
can't read people's minds, I'm not part animal. Mind you, that's
something to be grateful for- Cheryl down the road has to spend at
least 10 hours a day underwater.

I miss talking to Max....

My reverie is disturbed by the weight of Max's leathery hands on my
shoulders and the unpleasant slurp of him licking my face.
'Stop it!'
Then I notice the blood on his hands. He proudly holds up what would
appear to have been a squirrel, and flashes me a proud, razor-sharp
grin.
'IgotitIgotit!' he declares enthusiastically. When he's excited, he
tends to make several words into one.
'Its horrible! Take it outside, eat it, I don't care, just do it
outside!'

He answers me with a hurt 'Hmph!' and dashes out into the garden. I
turn back to marking 4A's latest batch of work. Mundane things like
this have taken on a sort of exotic pleasure-they're so...normal.
'Yestaday mummy got angrie at dady and turned him in to a
goldfish'
This isn't creative writing, just Lizzie's weekend diary. We hardly
need creative writing anymore.

After a few minutes of marking, there is suddenly a pile of books on
one side of the sofa, and the clock reads 4.24 PM. My wrist aches from
all the ticking and crossing that I can't remember doing. It used to
feel like that sometimes anyway before The Switch, but now time has a
habit of skipping, although not often when you want it to, as in this
case.

A sound of clattering and yowling emanates from the kitchen. Max is
chasing the cutlery across the floor. Our entire wedding set would have
escaped by now if it weren't for Max, who, on another useful note,
keeps the house free of rodents better than Jonno ever did. He bounds
into the lounge, triumphantly clutching a struggling fork between his
teeth.
'Yes, yes very good. Now put it back in the drawer.'

10pm-ish. I sit in bed reading a copy of 'Great Expectations', the sun
rising over the horizon out of the window. It doesn't always rise in
the morning anymore, in fact, its been known to rise and set as many as
four times a day. Still, on the up side, you get to see more attractive
sunsets. I look up from my book to see a teaspoon dash through the
door, and as it leaps out of the window, I'm sure I hear a minuscule,
tinny voice cry 'Wheeeee!' . The teaspoons are always the first to
go.

Suddenly, Max is padding around on the other side of the bed.
'Josie?' he says.
I can't remember the last time he called me by my name.
'Go'na stay here with you t'nite.'
I don't know quite what to say, so I decide to say what I always used
to.
'Goodnight, dear'
'Hmph.'