I arrive at the bus stop heading for work and see the moon has fallen from the sky and is resting in a crater where the Bell Tower used to be. I’m struck by how unimpressive it looks close up, beige and lumpy, like old porridge.

“Nothing special,” I mutter out of the corner of my mouth to a man clutching a briefcase nearby.

“Pardon?” he seems startled.

“THE MOON,” I say more loudly. Perhaps he’s hard of hearing. I smile reassuringly and gesture towards it, “NOTHING SPECIAL IS IT? NOT VERY “SILVERY?” I make the air quotes.

He looks over his shoulder in the way people do when they think you’re talking to someone behind them.

“MATE,” I say, arms outstretched, “THEMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON.”

“Please leave me alone,” he sprints down the street like his arse is on fire.

“Bloke’s lost it,” I appeal to an old lady crouched over her shopping trolley.

“Piss off kid,” she gives me the finger and looks away.

I’m at a loss. As I watch, a crane teeters and with a shriek of metal settles heavily against the side of the moon.

I’m about to dial emergency but the bus arrives, it’s a ten minute wait for the next one, and I’ve been late for work three times this month already, so I think sod it, hop on, and off we rumble down the street, swerving just the tiniest bit to avoid the moon.