Friday morning was bright and clear, with the kind of crisp, clean light that promised a genuinely nice day ahead. The sky was a pale blue with just a few wisps of white cloud drifting lazily across it, and there was a freshness to the air that made you want to throw open all the windows and let the world in.

The garden was alive with activity, but not from our usual robin. Instead, the entire lawn was covered with busy, noisy starlings, hopping about and chattering to each other in that raucous way starlings have. They seemed to be having some sort of conference, all pecking and squawking and generally making a tremendous fuss about whatever it was starlings found so important at half past five in the morning.

I filled my glass with water and flicked on the kettle. Friday meant muesli, and with the promise of the weekend ahead, it felt like the right choice to ease into what looked like it would be a lovely day. The shower was running upstairs; Dave maintaining his routine despite the avian parliament session happening outside.

The radio crackled to life as I poured the muesli into my bowl, and Gary's voice carried an unusually serious tone.

"In local news this morning, another candidate for the upcoming council elections has withdrawn from the race. Margaret Thickbush announced yesterday that she wants to spend her remaining time with her family rather than campaigning. Her supporters say they are shocked and dismayed by the decision." Gary's voice softened slightly. "Well, family comes first sometimes, doesn't it?"

There was a brief pause, then Gary seemed to catch himself and coughed, his voice bouncing back to its usual enthusiasm.

"But anyway! It's Friday! The weekend is calling, and I am so excited I could burst! Let's go straight to the phones and find out what everyone's got planned for their weekend adventures!"

I added milk to my muesli, listening as Gary moved into his caller routine with renewed vigor.

"We have Keith on the line from Stanford-Le-Hope! Keith, my good man, what have you got planned for the weekend?"

"Well, Gary, I was thinking of—"

"Good old Stanford-No-Hope!" Gary interrupted with a laugh.

The line went dead with an audible click.

"Oh... oh dear. Looks like we lost Keith there," Gary said, though he didn't sound particularly bothered. "Right then, let's try Jenifer from Langdon Hills! Jenifer, what's the weekend looking like for you?"

"Alright Gary!" came a loud, brash voice that seemed to fill the entire kitchen. "Me and the girls are off to Bas Vegas tonight! We're going for a meal first, not sure where yet, then we're gonna watch a film and go clubbing! We won't be home until Saturday! Woo!"

Gary's enthusiasm matched hers perfectly. "Good old Bas Vegas! Where the entertainment can range from bowling to films to drunken brawls in the car park! Have a brilliant time, my dear. What song can we play to get your weekend started?"

"'Girls Just Want to Have Fun' by Cyndi Lauper!" she replied without hesitation.

I reached for the radio dial immediately, turning it off just as the opening synth notes began to play. I'd heard quite enough weekend enthusiasm for one morning.

As I moved to get the milk back in the fridge, I noticed something odd. The ketchup bottle was missing from the door. Dave always stood it upside down on the shelf, and it invariably fell out when he opened the fridge, which drove me mad. But as I placed the milk back, I realised it was completely gone. That was strange; it was fairly new, I'd only opened it over the weekend.

I stood there for a moment, staring at the empty space where the ketchup should have been, wondering where on earth it could have gone. I picked up my phone absently, and it opened to where I'd left off on Instagram the night before. Her photo filled the screen, her cradling a growing bump, glowing with that unmistakable pregnancy radiance. My thumb hovered over the heart button for a split second before I noticed his arm wrapped around her waist. For a moment I was back to that first time I'd seen them together, their faces, that look between them. I slammed the phone down on the counter.

I'd just settled at the table with my breakfast with a huff, when Dave appeared in the doorway, looking remarkably fresh for a Friday morning. He carried what appeared to be a tall glass filled with a thick, red liquid garnished with a celery stick and what looked like a small pickled onion. A Bloody Mary, complete with all the trimmings, seemed rather ambitious for breakfast, but then Dave's morning beverage choices had long since stopped following any conventional logic.

He sat down across from me, took a sip of his elaborate cocktail, and gazed out at the starling convention on the lawn. Just as he settled back in his chair, the entire flock suddenly took off as one, creating a tremendous fluttering noise that filled the garden with sound and movement. Dave watched them disappear over the rooftops, then scanned the fence line, clearly looking for the neighbour’s cat.

"You know," Dave said, setting down his Bloody Mary with the satisfied air of someone who'd just solved a major linguistic puzzle, "I like to think spelling is just letters having a party and sometimes they invite the wrong guests."

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