Saturday mornings had their own particular rhythm. The sun was higher by the time I made it to the kitchen at 5:30, casting longer shadows across the worktop. The robin was perched on the garden fence today, sitting perfectly still as if posing for a photograph, head tilted towards the house.

I filled my glass with water and flicked on the kettle, then moved to the fridge to get the bacon. Always a bacon sarnie on Saturdays, and I'd cook enough for Dave too; he'd be down soon enough, the smell of bacon would bring him down otherwise he’d probably sleep the day away.

The radio crackled to life as I laid the bacon in the frying pan, the familiar sizzle filling the kitchen.

"It's suuuuuuuuuunday!" came Gary's voice, then a pause. "No wait, hang on... it's Saturday! Sorry folks, got a bit carried away there. It's DJ G-Raff, and what a gorgeous Saturday morning it is here in Essex!"

I buttered the bread and put it ready by the toaster. The bacon was starting to fill the kitchen with that rich, smoky smell that made it feel like the weekend had properly started.

"Now, we've got some interesting news for you this weekend," Gary continued, sounding slightly more serious than usual. "Our friends with the telescopes are telling us they're a bit unsure about what's happened with our approaching comet. Seems it's changed course, and they're not entirely sure why or how. The boffins are scratching their heads and doing lots of mathematical things that I frankly don't understand and they’re not sure they understand… probably."

Still no sound from upstairs; Dave would be dead to the world until the smell of the bacon reached him.

"But hey, it's the weekend! Bank holiday weekend, no less! Though the weather forecast is saying we might get some rain, possibly thunderstorms. Typical British bank holiday weather, eh? Mother Nature's little joke on us all."

Gary's voice brightened considerably. "Right then, let's go to the phones! We have Lynda from Canvey Island. Lynda, my dear, how are you this fine Saturday morning?"

"Alright Gary!" came an enthusiastic voice, clearly already in weekend mode. "I'm buzzing for the long weekend! Me and the girls are off down the Haystack tonight, gonna get absolutely steaming and wake up tomorrow with a mouth tasting like a skip!"

There was a brief pause from Gary, as if he wasn't quite sure how to respond to such vivid imagery.

"Well... that sounds... memorable, Lynda! What can we play for you to get the weekend started?"

"'Alcohol' by Barenaked Ladies! Woo!"

The "woo" was so loud and sudden I nearly dropped the spatula. Gary quickly cut her off.

"Right then, here's your song, Lynda, the... very excited!"

I turned off the radio just as the opening chords began. I'd heard quite enough enthusiasm for one morning.

My attention caught on an oily rag lying crumpled by the back door, clearly dropped by Dave during one of his "repair" sessions. He'd been tinkering with that old bike of his again, the one he insisted was "a classic." In Dave's vocabulary, "classic" seemed to be his way of saying it was complete junk that he couldn't get to work but was too stubborn to admit defeat. The oily rag on the floor annoyed me more than it should have. Dave always said he was here to help, to 'share the load' as he put it, and to be fair, he did help with the bills when he could. But more often than not, his attempts at helping around the house left me with more work to do than if he'd just left things alone.

The bacon was perfect, crispy but not burnt. I assembled my sandwich, added a generous squeeze of tomato ketchup, and moved to the table just as I heard the first stirrings from upstairs.

By the time I'd finished half my sandwich, Dave appeared in the doorway. He was still in his zebra onesie, hair sticking up at impossible angles, and clutching what appeared to be a mug of black coffee, where it came from baffled me.

He slumped into his chair, took a long sip of coffee, and stared out at the garden for a moment. The robin had moved to the bird table and was pecking about busily. Dave watched it with that particular intensity that meant his shower thoughts were about to make an appearance.

"You know," Dave said, setting down his mug with the satisfied air of someone who'd just unlocked the secrets of the universe, "I like to think all those times The Simpsons got it right, it's not prophecy. It's just it seemed like a cool idea so we all just went along with it."

I paused mid-chew, a piece of bacon still between my teeth.

"What the fuck, Dave?!"