Wednesday morning was thoroughly miserable. Rain was hammering against the kitchen window with the kind of relentless intensity that made you grateful to be indoors. The garden looked grey and sodden, and there was no sign of the robin anywhere, not on the bird table, not on the fence, not even a glimpse of movement in the silver birch. Smart bird, staying wherever birds go when the weather turns properly nasty.

I filled my glass with water and flicked on the kettle. Wednesday meant porridge, perfect weather for something warm and comforting. The shower was running upstairs; Dave maintaining his routine despite it raining cats and dogs.

The radio crackled to life as I measured oats into the saucepan, and I was immediately struck by Gary's voice in what sounded like interview mode.

"Now joining us is Tim Whistleprick, who's announced he's running for local council. Tim, what's your stance on the asteroid situation?"

"Right, well, this asteroid business, it's not hitting us, we're hitting it! We're the problem here, not some rock floating about in space!"

I stirred the porridge as Gary pressed on. "Interesting perspective, Tim. But let's talk about the electionm what can voters expect from you if elected?"

Tim paused thoughtfully. "Well, I'd be tough on crime, very tough on criminals. Bring back naming and shaming, that's what I say. So many petty things being ignored these days. Take my walk yesterday, saw this lad driving along with no front number plate. Asked him why. He said 'to look cool.' Cool?! He was driving a VW Polo! Should be arrested and punished immediately."

"Well, Tim, traffic violations aren't usually something the local council—"

"Name and shame, that's the answer! They wear their punishment like a badge of honour, so let's make it horrible for them. No number plate? Fine; you get a criminal record and you're forced to fit a 'dumberplate.' Bright pink with black registration that you have to pay for, and it goes on any other car you own as well. Can only be removed after a set time. Get caught without it? Double the fine, double the length of the dumberplate!"

Gary sounded bemused. "I like the creativity, Tim, but again, that's not really part of the council's remit—"

"And that's just the start! I have other ideas. Vote for me, vote for a brighter future... and no bloody ducks!"

"Well, Tim, ducks aren't really a problem the council would typically—"

But Tim was off on one now. "Bloody ducks, always wanting bread but they can't have it! No good for them, not for ducks! But don't like it when I gave them peas, should need a license for them! Pecked me they did! Bleeding quacking all the time with their sharp beaks, feathery fu—"

Gary's panicked whisper was audible: "Kate! Mute his mic!"

The microphone cut out, but you could still hear Tim faintly in the background when he raised his voice, ranting about ducks and licenses. Gary tried to salvage the situation.

"Right, well, that was Tim Whistleprick, everyone... still working out some technical difficulties here..."

In the distance, you could hear Tim shouting: "WHERE ARE THE DUCKS?!"

Gary soldiered on. "Tim was meant to take calls from listeners, so let's... oh, we have Tracy from Stock on the line. Tracy, you had a question about potholes?"

"Yes, what's Tim going to do about the terrible potholes on my street?"

From the background came Tim's muffled voice: "It's the ducks! They dig them, sit in ‘em at night, bloody ducks!"

Gary sighed audibly. "I think Tim is unable to answer questions at the moment. Maybe a song instead?"

Tracy paused. "Oh... oh well, in that case I'll have 'Gangnam Style' by Psy."

Gary sounded put off by the request but started it quickly, anything to deal with the Tim situation. Just before the music kicked in, you could hear Tim in the distance: "What? Where am I going? Is it my time?"

I turned off the radio, shaking my head and chuckling to myself at the absolute chaos that had just unfolded. Some mornings the local radio was better entertainment than anything on television.

As I moved my porridge to the table, my eye caught the new kitchen tap I'd fitted myself yesterday. It looked smart and modern, a definite improvement over the old one that Dave had managed to completely destroy while attempting to replace a simple washer. At least the sink had survived his "help." On the windowsill sat the spanner Dave had used, somehow, impossibly, he'd managed to bend the solid metal tool. How someone managed to bend a spanner was beyond me, but then Dave had a talent for destruction when he was actually trying to fix things.

I'd just settled down to my breakfast when Dave appeared in the doorway, looking surprisingly alert despite the miserable weather. He carried what appeared to be a can of Red Bull, not exactly what I'd consider appropriate breakfast fare, but Dave's morning beverage choices continued to baffle me.

He sat down across from me, took a sip of his energy drink, and stared out at the rain-soaked garden, cracked his knuckles and let out a sigh.

"You know," Dave said, setting down his can with the satisfied air of someone who'd just solved a technological mystery, "I like to think small artists live in my printer."

I looked across at him and said, "What the fuck, Dave!"