The morning light filtered through the kitchen window with that same gentle persistence, though today it seemed somehow different. Still 5:30 AM, still the same ritual. The robin was back in the silver birch, this time with what looked like a grub clenched firmly in its beak, head cocked at that peculiar angle robins manage when they're particularly pleased with themselves.

I filled my glass from the tap, the water cool against my palm, and flicked on the kettle. Friday meant muesli. Always muesli on Fridays, though I could never quite remember why I'd settled on that particular arrangement. The cupboard door opened with its familiar creak.

The radio crackled to life as I poured the muesli into my bowl, each oat flake and dried fruit piece landing with tiny, satisfying clicks.

"Morning, morning, morning Essex! DJ G-Raff here, and what a absolutely brilliant Friday it is! The weekend is calling, people; I can practically hear it whispering sweet nothings in my ear!"

I added the milk, watching it seep between the oats and raisins. The shower was running upstairs; Dave was up and following his usual morning routine.

"Now, following that news report about those bright flashes in the sky," Gary continued, his voice bubbling with that infectious enthusiasm that somehow made even the most mundane topics sound earth-shattering, "I've got to say - hey, we're not meant to get the lightshow yet, comet! You're jumping the gun a bit there, aren't you?"

I prepared the cafetière, the familiar ritual of measuring coffee grounds oddly soothing. The shower had stopped. Dave would be getting dressed now, probably trying to figure out which leg went where in that ridiculous onesie.

"Right then, let's get to the phones! The usual number, folks - you know it, you love it, you probably have it tattooed somewhere inappropriate! And speaking of inappropriate, we have Jeffrey from Thundersley on the line. Jeffrey, my friend, what can I do for you this fine Friday morning?"

"Yeah, Gary," came a distinctly unimpressed voice, "this comet thing is getting a bit boring, isn't it? Why can't people just shut up about it?  It’s just a comet for crying out loud, it’ll probably be cloud when it passes anyway and we’ll see nothing."

"Boring?! BORING?!" Gary's voice pitched higher with theatrical outrage. "Jeffrey, my man, this is exciting! I'm excited, my mum is exited, even my budgie's excited, honestly, Nigel's been chirping about it all week! Everyone's excited! Even producer Kate… Kate?  Ok maybe not Kate.  Are you excited now, Jeffrey?"

There was a pause. "Nope."

"Well," Gary said, clearly deflated but rallying quickly, "since you're on anyways, what song can we play for you?"

"Shaddap You Face by Joe Dolce."

I reached for the radio dial immediately. There was no way I was subjecting myself to that particular musical catastrophe.

My eyes drifted to the back door where Dave's old yellow boots sat, caked with yesterday's mud. He always wore those boots when he was "helping" in the garden, and for some inexplicable reason, he'd sing that bloody song about a blue jacket whenever he put them on. Never could work out the connection between yellow boots and blue jackets in Dave's mind, but then again, very little about Dave followed conventional logic.

I moved my breakfast to the small table, settling into my usual chair just as the footsteps started down the stairs.

Dave appeared in the doorway, resplendent in his zebra stripes, somehow already clutching a steaming mug of tea. Where he managed to make tea I’ll never know, ranking somewhere between the location of lost socks and why he insisted on wearing that onesie.

He sat down across from me, took a thoughtful sip of his tea, and looked out at the garden for a moment. His eyes had that particular look that meant he'd been thinking again during his shower. I braced myself.

"You know," Dave said, settling back in his chair with the satisfied air of someone who'd just solved a particularly complex philosophical problem, "I like to think bumblebees are nature's drunks. They fly all over the shop doing stupid things, seemingly never getting hurt, until they get really hurt and dead and stuff."

I stopped mid-chew, a spoonful of muesli suspended halfway to my mouth.

"What the fuck, Dave?!"