Saturday morning was supposed to be bright and clear according to yesterday's forecast, but looking out at the sky, it seemed to have started off considerably cloudier than expected. I'd put another load of washing out late yesterday evening, hoping it would dry overnight in what was promised to be a gentle breeze, but seeing the overcast conditions now, I was beginning to doubt my optimism.

As I watched, I spotted the robin balancing precariously on the washing line, directly above my favourite t-shirt, the comfortable navy blue one I'd had for years. For a moment, the bird seemed to be considering its options, wings spread slightly for balance as the line swayed gently in the morning air.

Then, with what seemed like deliberate timing, it lifted its tail and deposited a perfectly aimed white dropping right in the centre of my shirt before flying off toward the silver birch.

I sighed deeply, staring at the fresh stain on my favourite garment. Why on that shirt? Why couldn't it have chosen one of Dave's socks, or literally anything else hanging on the line?

I filled my glass with water and flicked on the kettle. Saturday meant bacon sarnie, and I'd cook enough for Dave too, the smell would eventually drag him out of bed, as it always did on Saturday mornings. But the shower had already begun to run upstairs; slightly surprising for him.

The radio crackled to life as I laid the bacon in the frying pan, and Gary's voice carried an unusually serious, almost grave tone.

"At the United Nations, the Security Council held a press conference yesterday to discuss their plan to deal with the approaching asteroid. They've announced a preliminary launch date for two missions, dubbed 'Peace' and 'Harmony,' designed to intercept and destroy the asteroid. The launches are scheduled for May 30th and 31st, with the rockets expected to meet their target on June 10th and 11th. If successful, the remains of the asteroid would burn up in our atmosphere on June 18th."

Gary paused, and for once, his usual enthusiasm was completely absent.

"Getting a bit serious with this asteroid, isn't it?" he said quietly, taking what sounded like a deep breath.

Then, as if someone had flicked a switch, Gary's voice bounced back to its usual energy.

"Right then! Let's go to the phones! We have Craig on the line from Upminster! Craig, how are you today?"

"I think we're all gonna die," came a flat, matter-of-fact voice before the line cut off abruptly.

"Well... it's the weekend, so no bad vibes, Craig!" Gary replied with forced cheerfulness. "Let's try Grant from Chelmsford! Hope you're a bit happier, Grant!"

"Why, what's going on?" Grant asked, sounding completely oblivious.

"Oh, nothing!" Gary replied quickly. "What can we play for you today?"

"'Good Day Sunshine' by The Beatles," Grant replied without hesitation.

"Really?" Gary's voice carried a note of disbelief. "Oh... well... okay then."

As the opening chords of "Good Day Sunshine" began to play, I looked out at the slightly overcast morning and shook my head at the irony. I reached for the radio dial and turned it off.

I moved toward the back door to get a better look at the clouds and assess the damage to my t-shirt, when I tripped over a large, empty cardboard box that Dave had left by the door. The thing was huge and completely uncrushed, taking up far more space than necessary. I stood there for a moment, pondering what on earth Dave could have ordered that required such a massive box.

I'd just finished making my bacon sandwich when Dave appeared in the doorway, looking surprisingly alert for a Saturday morning. He carried what appeared to be a glass of Coke, but it was served in the most bizarre novelty glass I'd ever seen, decorated with a picture of a penguin jumping out of the water while simultaneously having a poo on a seal that was trying to eat it.

I'd never seen that particular glass before, and frankly, I wasn't sure I wanted to know where he'd acquired such a thing.

He sat down in his usual seat, took a sip of his Coke, and gazed out at the overcast garden. He burped while waving a finger at me, I knew something apparently enlightening was about to be said.

"You know," Dave said, setting down his ridiculous glass with the satisfied air of someone who'd just solved a major literary mystery, "I like to think when I read, the writer is putting words in my head but in my voice. So weird, man."

I put down my sandwich, closed my eyes, and just sighed.

"What the fuck, Dave..."