The Dream Blottisham Had About Nonsense

“I had a dream last night.”

Professor Quillibrace looked up from his book.

Miss Stray put down her tea.

Mr Blottisham was standing in the doorway looking unusually troubled.

“About what?”

“Nonsense.”

Quillibrace closed the book.

“Go on.”

“I was somewhere that wasn't quite somewhere.”

“That sounds promising,” said Miss Stray.

“There was a table.”

“Good.”

“There wasn't a table.”

“Less good.”

“There was a table, but it was being a door.”

Quillibrace looked at Miss Stray.

“Peake,” she said.

“I haven't got to Peake yet.”

Blottisham sat down.

“There were three men.”

“Three?”

“Carroll, Lear and Peake.”

Miss Stray smiled.

“What were they doing?”

“Talking.”

“About nonsense?”

“Yes.”

“Was it nonsense?”

Blottisham frowned.

“That's the problem.”

He began.

Carroll was sitting at one end of the table.

Lear was sitting at the other.

Peake was sitting beside the room.

Not beside the table.

Beside the room.

Blottisham had asked him why.

Peake had said:

“The table is already occupied.”

Blottisham had looked at the table.

Nobody was sitting in his chair.

He had said so.

Peake had replied:

“Exactly.”

“So,” said Quillibrace, “the relations were already going wrong.”

“Yes.”

Blottisham looked annoyed.

“You keep interrupting.”

“I thought I might help.”

“You weren't in the dream.”

“That has never stopped me.”

Miss Stray smiled.

“What happened next?”

“Carroll began to speak.”

In the dream, Carroll had been holding a card.

On one side it said:

THIS SIDE IS THE OTHER SIDE.

On the other:

THE OTHER SIDE IS THIS SIDE.

Carroll turned it over.

Then turned it over again.

Then looked disappointed.

“I said, ‘What does it mean?’”

“He said?”

“He said, ‘It means what it says.’”

“That sounds like Carroll,” said Miss Stray.

“I said, ‘But which side is which?’”

Carroll looked at me as though I had asked a very easy question.

“Whichever side you are not looking at.”

“So I looked at the other side.”

“And?”

“It said the same thing.”

Quillibrace nodded.

“Distinction without resolution.”

“I don't know what that means.”

“You probably did in the dream.”

“I didn't.”

Miss Stray said, “Continue.”

“Lear was holding a spoon.”

“A runcible spoon?”

“I don't know.”

“What did it look like?”

“Like a spoon.”

“Then it probably was.”

“No,” said Blottisham. “It was a runcible.”

“How did you know?”

“He told me.”

“What did you ask him?”

“I asked what a runcible was.”

“And?”

“He said, ‘A runcible.’”

Miss Stray smiled.

“What happened when you asked him again?”

“He said, ‘Oh, you mean what sort?’”

“Yes.”

“I said yes.”

“He said, ‘The sort that is runcible.’”

Quillibrace closed his eyes.

“I began to get angry,” said Blottisham.

“Understandably.”

“I said, ‘But what is it?’”

Lear looked at the spoon.

Then at me.

Then at the spoon again.

“‘It's the one you have.’”

“I said, ‘That doesn't tell me anything.’”

“He said?”

“‘It tells you which one.’”

There was a pause.

Miss Stray looked at Quillibrace.

“That is actually rather good.”

“I know,” said Blottisham bitterly.

“And Peake?”

“Peake had moved.”

“Where?”

“He was now beside me.”

“Not beside the room?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“No,” said Blottisham. “Because I was beside the room.”

Quillibrace smiled.

“What did Peake say?”

“He said, ‘You see?’”

“See what?”

“That I had become beside.”

Miss Stray laughed.

“I said, ‘Beside what?’”

“And?”

“He said, ‘Exactly.’”

Blottisham paused.

“I was beginning to feel excluded.”

“Why?”

“They all understood what they were doing.”

“And you didn't?”

“No.”

“What happened then?”

“They began talking about nonsense.”

“Analytically?”

“Yes.”

“But in nonsense?”

“Yes.”

Carroll said:

“A distinction is most visible when it has been distinguished from itself.”

Lear said:

“A thing may be known before it is knowable, especially if it has already been named.”

Peake said:

“Things do not have to belong to one another to happen together.”

Blottisham stared at them.

“That sounds remarkably like what we've been discussing.”

Quillibrace nodded.

“Indeed.”

“I said that.”

“What?”

“I said, ‘That sounds remarkably like what we've been discussing.’”

“What did they say?”

“Nothing.”

“All three?”

“All three.”

“Perhaps they hadn't heard you.”

“They had.”

“How do you know?”

“Because Carroll turned his chair around.”

“And?”

“He was then sitting on the other side of me.”

Miss Stray looked amused.

“What did Lear do?”

“He gave me the spoon.”

“What did Peake do?”

“He moved the door.”

“Where?”

“Beside the table.”

Blottisham looked at his colleagues.

“I said, ‘I don't understand.’”

“And then?”

“They all stopped.”

That, apparently, had been the worst part.

Carroll looked at him.

Lear looked at him.

Peake looked at him.

For the first time, all three were silent.

Then Carroll said:

“You understand enough.”

Lear said:

“You have the thing.”

Peake said:

“You are beside it.”

Blottisham stared at them.

“I said, ‘What thing?’”

Lear pointed at the spoon.

“You have that.”

“I said, ‘But I don't know what it is.’”

Lear smiled.

“You don't need to.”

“And then I woke up.”

There was silence in the Common Room.

Miss Stray looked at the spoon on the table.

Quillibrace looked at Blottisham.

“You still have it.”

Blottisham looked down.

The spoon was in his hand.

He dropped it.

Nobody moved.

After a moment, Quillibrace picked it up.

“Ordinary spoon,” he said.

“Are you sure?”

Quillibrace examined it.

“Yes.”

Miss Stray took it from him.

She turned it over.

“Quite ordinary.”

Blottisham looked relieved.

“Good.”

Then he frowned.

“Although—”

“What?”

“I don't remember picking it up.”

Quillibrace put it back on the table.

Miss Stray looked at him.

“Perhaps the dream did.”

Blottisham stared at the spoon.

“That is nonsense.”

“Yes,” said Miss Stray.

He looked at her.

Then at Quillibrace.

Then back at the spoon.

“I think I understand.”

Quillibrace raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

Blottisham pointed at the spoon.

“It doesn't matter what it is.”

Miss Stray smiled.

“What matters?”

Blottisham hesitated.

He looked at the chair.

Then the table.

Then the door.

Finally, he said:

“Where it belongs.”

Nobody answered.

The spoon moved slightly.

Or perhaps it didn't.

Blottisham looked at it.

“Did you see that?”

“No,” said Quillibrace.

“Neither did I,” said Miss Stray.

Blottisham nodded.

“Good.”

He stood up.

“I'd rather not dream about philosophers again.”

“Literary writers,” said Quillibrace.

“Whatever.”

He walked to the door.

Stopped.

Looked back.

“By the way,” he said, “Carroll was wrong.”

“About what?”

Blottisham smiled.

“He was sitting on the wrong side of the table.”

Then he left.

Quillibrace looked at Miss Stray.

“Was he?”

She looked at the chair.

“I don't know.”

The chair was no longer beside the table.

It was beside the door.

The Senior Common Room on Three Kinds of Nonsense

Mr Blottisham had read the paper.

He put it down with the expression of a man who had discovered that someone else had been thinking without consulting him.

“So,” he said, “nonsense is divided into three kinds.”

Professor Quillibrace looked up.

“No.”

“Carroll, Lear and Peake.”

“That is not what the paper says.”

“It is what the paper means.”

Miss Stray smiled.

“Perhaps you could tell us what the three kinds are.”

Blottisham counted them on his fingers.

“Carroll makes things illogical. Lear makes things ridiculous. Peake puts things in the wrong places.”

Quillibrace sighed.

“An excellent demonstration.”

“Of what?”

“The first difficulty.”

Blottisham looked pleased.

“Which is?”

“You have confused the effect with the mechanism.”

Miss Stray leaned forward.

“What is disturbed in each case?”

Blottisham considered this.

“Everything?”

“No.”

“Something?”

“Yes.”

He looked at his fingers again.

“Carroll disturbs rules.”

“More precisely, distinctions,” said Quillibrace.

“Lear disturbs definitions.”

“Categories.”

“And Peake puts things somewhere they shouldn't be.”

“Relations,” said Miss Stray.

Blottisham frowned.

“I don't see the difference.”

“Then take an ordinary example,” said Quillibrace. “Suppose someone applies a perfectly good rule where it does not belong.”

“That is nonsense.”

“Why?”

“Because the rule is being used wrongly.”

“Then you understand the rule.”

Blottisham paused.

Miss Stray said, “That is part of the point. We recognise Carroll's nonsense because we know what the distinction normally permits.”

Blottisham nodded slowly.

“Fine. Carroll makes rules misbehave.”

“Not bad,” said Quillibrace.

“Lear makes categories misbehave.”

“Better.”

“And Peake makes relations misbehave.”

Quillibrace nodded.

Blottisham sat back.

“Therefore they're all doing the same thing.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because the disturbance occurs in different places.”

Blottisham looked irritated.

“But nonsense is nonsense.”

“Only if you ignore what has become nonsensical.”

Miss Stray picked up the paper.

“Think about the runcible spoon.”

“I've been trying not to.”

“You can recognise that it is strange without having a satisfactory definition of it.”

“So Lear makes things undefined.”

“No. The important thing is that the thing can remain meaningful even when its definition is unavailable.”

Blottisham thought about this.

“You mean I can know what something is for without knowing what it is.”

“Sometimes,” said Miss Stray.

“That sounds dangerous.”

“It often is.”

Quillibrace turned a page.

“And Peake?”

Blottisham brightened.

“That one I understand. Everything is in the wrong place.”

“Not quite. The things themselves may be perfectly ordinary. What has changed is how they are related.”

“The chair is still a chair.”

“Yes.”

“The table is still a table.”

“Yes.”

“But the chair and table are doing something strange together.”

“Exactly.”

Blottisham looked suspicious.

“So nonsense depends on ordinary sense.”

Quillibrace smiled faintly.

“Now you are getting somewhere.”

Blottisham leaned back.

“But then nonsense isn't the opposite of meaning.”

“No.”

“It needs meaning in order to be nonsense.”

“Yes.”

He thought for a moment.

“That's annoying.”

“It is also useful.”

Miss Stray looked toward the window.

“Perhaps nonsense shows us something that ordinary meaning conceals.”

Blottisham frowned.

“What?”

“The conditions under which things normally make sense.”

Quillibrace nodded.

“We rarely notice a distinction while it is working. We notice it when something crosses it.”

“And we rarely notice a category,” said Miss Stray, “until something refuses to fit.”

“And relations?”

“We notice those when something that belongs together no longer does.”

Blottisham was silent.

Then he said:

“So nonsense is an experiment.”

Quillibrace raised an eyebrow.

“An experiment?”

“You disturb something and see what breaks.”

Miss Stray smiled.

“Or what becomes visible.”

Blottisham looked again at the three names on the page.

“Carroll breaks distinctions. Lear breaks categories. Peake breaks relations.”

“Disturbs,” said Quillibrace.

“Breaks.”

“Disturbs.”

“Fine.”

He stood up.

“I think I've understood.”

Quillibrace looked alarmed.

“What have you understood?”

“Nonsense.”

“That is ambitious.”

Blottisham walked toward the door.

“Nonsense is what happens when something ordinary stops behaving ordinarily.”

Miss Stray said, “That is not a bad beginning.”

Blottisham opened the door.

A chair was standing in the corridor.

He looked at it.

Then at the room.

Then back at the chair.

“That's Peake,” he said.

Quillibrace looked over.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because the chair belongs in the corridor.”

Blottisham considered this.

“Then why is it here?”

Miss Stray looked at the chair.

“Perhaps that's the question.”

Blottisham closed the door.

“I'm beginning to dislike nonsense.”

From the corridor came the sound of a chair being moved.

Nobody had seen who moved it.

When Nonsense Made Meaning Visible

Nonsense is often treated as the absence of meaning.

But some of the most interesting nonsense does something rather different. It makes meaning visible by disturbing the conditions under which meaning normally works.

Three writers are especially useful here: Lewis Carroll, Edward Lear and Mervyn Peake.

They do not all make nonsense in the same way.

Carroll disturbed distinctions

Carroll's nonsense often begins with something perfectly intelligible: a rule, a category, an inference, a sequence.

Then the distinction is pushed somewhere it no longer quite works.

A rule survives after the circumstances that made the rule meaningful have changed.

The result is not simply irrationality. We can see the problem because we understand the distinction that has been disturbed.

Carroll's nonsense therefore makes us notice the conditions under which distinctions hold.

Lear disturbed categories

Lear's nonsense is different.

Consider the runcible spoon.

The word seems to identify something, although it does not tell us very reliably what sort of thing a runcible is. The object can have a name before we have a satisfactory category for it.

Here nonsense does not necessarily put something in the wrong category.

It can leave us wondering whether the category has arrived yet.

Lear's nonsense therefore makes us notice how much intelligibility can precede definition.

Peake disturbed relations

Peake's nonsense can go somewhere else again.

The things themselves may remain perfectly intelligible. A chair is still a chair. A shoe is still a shoe. A person is still a person.

What has changed is the relation between them.

Things happen beside one another when they ordinarily belong together differently. An object acquires an unexpected use. An ordinary action takes place in an unexpected setting.

The strangeness comes not from the things but from how they are related.

Peake's nonsense therefore makes us notice the relational conditions of ordinary intelligibility.

Three kinds of disturbance

So, very roughly:

Carroll unsettles distinctions.

Lear unsettles categories.

Peake unsettles relations.

These are not three exclusive kinds of nonsense. Carroll can disturb categories, Lear can disturb relations, and Peake can play with distinctions.

But they draw attention to different parts of the machinery by which something comes to make sense.

And that may explain why nonsense can be so revealing.

If something were simply meaningless, we would have nothing to notice.

Nonsense works because ordinary meaning remains sufficiently present for us to recognise its disturbance.

We know what a rule normally does.

We know what a category normally does.

We know how things normally relate.

Nonsense takes one of those expectations slightly out of place.

And suddenly the background becomes visible.

Perhaps, then, nonsense is not what happens when meaning disappears.

It is what happens when the conditions of meaning become noticeable.

The Senior Common Room Discusses The Town Where Things Happened Beside One Another

The Senior Common Room was quiet.

Professor Quillibrace was reading.

Miss Stray was looking out of the window.

Mr Blottisham was standing beside the fireplace.

He looked deeply troubled.

“I don't like this one.”

Quillibrace looked up.

“Why?”

“Nothing is where it belongs.”

Miss Stray smiled.

“Isn't it?”

“The rain is under the umbrella.”

“Yes.”

“The dog is walking the man.”

“Yes.”

“The chair is carrying the parcel.”

“Yes.”

“The bread is remembering being bread.”

“An unfortunate sentence,” said Quillibrace.

“And the statue isn't sitting on the bench.”

“No.”

“The bench is sitting on the statue.”

“No.”

Blottisham stopped.

“Actually, I'm not sure what that means.”

“Good.”

“I don't like it.”

---

Blottisham paced.

“The town is confused.”

“Possibly.”

“Everything has been put in the wrong relation.”

Miss Stray turned.

“Wrong according to what?”

“According to what things are for.”

“That was the previous town.”

Blottisham stopped.

“Yes.”

“And what is wrong here?”

Blottisham thought.

“The things aren't beside the right things.”

“Which things should be beside which?”

“The right ones.”

Miss Stray smiled.

“You've noticed the problem.”

“What problem?”

“You've defined rightness by the relation you're trying to explain.”

Blottisham frowned.

“That sounds like something Quillibrace would say.”

“It is.”

Quillibrace returned to his book.

“I hadn't said anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was not.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I usually do.”

---

Blottisham sat down.

“So what is the story about?”

Quillibrace closed his book.

“I think it is about relations.”

“Relations between what?”

“Things.”

“Obviously.”

“Not so obvious.”

Miss Stray said, “The story repeatedly separates an object from what we ordinarily expect it to be related to.”

“The postman waters letters.”

“Yes.”

“The porter polishes bread.”

“Yes.”

“The chair carries the parcel.”

“Yes.”

“The dog walks the man.”

“Yes.”

“And none of these is physically impossible.”

“Exactly.”

Blottisham looked puzzled.

“So the problem isn't possibility.”

“No.”

“It is appropriateness.”

“Closer.”

“What makes something appropriate?”

Quillibrace said, “Usually its relation to the situation.”

Blottisham thought.

“So a shoe isn't intrinsically for walking.”

“Not entirely.”

“A book isn't intrinsically for reading.”

“No.”

“A cup isn't intrinsically for drinking.”

“Not entirely.”

Blottisham looked alarmed.

“Then what is an object?”

Quillibrace smiled.

“Careful.”

---

Miss Stray picked up a book from the table.

“If I use this to prop open the door, is it still a book?”

“Yes,” said Blottisham.

“If I read it?”

“Yes.”

“If I stand on it?”

“Yes.”

“If I use it to swat a fly?”

“Yes.”

“If I throw it at someone?”

“Possibly.”

“If I use it to wrap a parcel?”

“Yes.”

Miss Stray put the book down.

“So the object remains relatively stable while its relations change.”

Blottisham nodded.

“Yes.”

“But the relations change what the object is doing.”

“Yes.”

“And therefore what it can mean in the situation.”

Blottisham looked thoughtful.

“So meaning isn't sitting inside the object.”

Quillibrace nodded.

“That would be one way of putting it.”

Blottisham smiled.

“That's useful.”

“Yes.”

“But inconvenient.”

“Usually.”

---

There was a knock.

The door opened.

A man entered carrying an umbrella.

It was raining inside the room.

He opened the umbrella.

The rain stopped.

Blottisham pointed.

“That's exactly what the story does.”

The man looked at him.

“Does what?”

“Put things in strange relations.”

The man looked at the umbrella.

Then at the ceiling.

“It's an umbrella.”

“Yes.”

“And it's raining.”

“Yes.”

“So I opened it.”

Blottisham looked at Quillibrace.

“This is perfectly normal.”

“Apparently.”

The man walked to the fireplace and held the umbrella over it.

The fire went out.

“Why did you do that?” asked Miss Stray.

The man looked surprised.

“I thought it was raining.”

“But the rain stopped.”

He looked at the umbrella.

“Oh.”

He closed it.

The fire came back.

The man left.

Blottisham stared after him.

“I don't know whether that proves anything.”

Quillibrace said, “It proves that context matters.”

---

Blottisham suddenly brightened.

“I know what the town has done.”

“What?”

“It has taken relations that are normally distributed across different contexts and recombined them.”

Miss Stray smiled.

“Yes.”

“So the nonsense isn't that the objects are impossible.”

“No.”

“It's that the familiar relation is displaced.”

“Yes.”

“The chair still carries.”

“Yes.”

“The bread is still bread.”

“Yes.”

“The shoe is still a shoe.”

“Yes.”

“But the relations among them have changed.”

“Exactly.”

Blottisham leaned back.

“That is rather clever.”

“It is.”

“Therefore the town is an idiot.”

Miss Stray laughed.

Quillibrace shook his head.

“You lasted remarkably long.”

---

Blottisham stood again.

“But why is it funny?”

Miss Stray looked at him.

“Because we recognise the ordinary relation while witnessing the displaced one.”

“Explain.”

“A dog walking a man is funny because we know what a dog ordinarily does in relation to a person.”

“Yes.”

“And what a person ordinarily does in relation to a dog.”

“Yes.”

“So the absurdity depends upon our ordinary expectations.”

“Exactly.”

“Then nonsense isn't meaningless.”

Quillibrace smiled.

“Now you're getting somewhere.”

“It depends on meaning.”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps it even reveals meaning.”

“Sometimes.”

“How?”

“By disrupting the relations through which meaning normally operates.”

Blottisham looked at the fireplace.

“So if the dog walks the man, I notice the ordinary relation between dog and man because it has been reversed.”

“Yes.”

“And if the postman waters letters, I notice what letters normally have to do with postmen.”

“Yes.”

“And if the baker bakes dough, I notice the ordinary relation between baking and bread.”

“Yes.”

Blottisham paused.

“Then nonsense can make ordinary meaning visible by making it behave strangely.”

Miss Stray nodded.

“Precisely.”

---

Blottisham smiled.

“I have another.”

Quillibrace looked resigned.

“Of course.”

“Suppose the ordinary relation itself is something we have learned.”

“It is.”

“Then nonsense depends on history.”

“Yes.”

“Because we have to have encountered the conventional relation before we can experience its displacement as absurd.”

“Yes.”

Blottisham pointed triumphantly.

“So the child who has never seen a dog won't find the dog walking the man strange.”

“Not in the same way.”

“And the person who has never seen a shoe won't understand why a shoe being read is funny.”

“Probably not.”

“So nonsense depends on a background of intelligibility.”

Quillibrace nodded.

“Very much.”

Blottisham sat down.

“That makes nonsense rather serious.”

“Don't tell it.”

---

Miss Stray looked out the window.

“There is another possibility.”

“What?”

“Perhaps nonsense doesn't merely disrupt relations.”

“What does it do instead?”

“It creates new ones.”

Blottisham looked at her.

“The Dalek.”

Quillibrace smiled.

“Of course.”

“The Dalek exterminates weeds.”

“Yes.”

“So an action normally associated with extermination enters a gardening relation.”

“Yes.”

“And then we can understand the action as gardening.”

“Exactly.”

Blottisham looked delighted.

“So the relation creates a new meaning.”

“Or makes a previously unnoticed possibility available.”

He considered this.

“That's different.”

“Yes.”

“Because the Dalek hasn't simply made a mistake.”

“No.”

“It has discovered an unusual use.”

“Yes.”

“Like the spoon.”

Miss Stray nodded.

“Like the runcible.”

“Yes.”

“Like the tree.”

“Yes.”

Blottisham looked increasingly pleased.

“We have a pattern.”

Quillibrace said, “We may.”

---

A silence followed.

Then Blottisham said:

“There's still something bothering me.”

“What?”

“The final sentence.”

Quillibrace looked at him.

“Which one?”

“Things don't have to belong to one another to happen together.”

“Yes.”

“That sounds obvious.”

“Does it?”

“Well, yes.”

“Then why is it useful?”

Blottisham thought.

“Because perhaps we normally assume that things happening together belong together.”

Miss Stray nodded.

“Correlation becomes relation.”

“Or relation becomes cause.”

“Yes.”

“Or proximity becomes significance.”

“Yes.”

Blottisham looked thoughtful.

“So the story is also warning us not to confuse beside with because.”

Quillibrace smiled.

“That is a very good distinction.”

Blottisham looked pleased.

“I knew it.”

“You did not.”

“I knew it after you said it.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“It is close enough.”

---

Another knock.

Nobody moved.

The door opened by itself.

A small boy stood outside.

He held a stone.

“Is this yours?” he asked.

Blottisham looked at it.

“No.”

The boy put it on the floor.

“Now it is.”

Blottisham stared.

“What?”

The boy walked away.

Blottisham looked at the stone.

Then at the door.

Then at Quillibrace.

“What just happened?”

Quillibrace said, “The stone became related to us.”

“But it wasn't ours.”

“No.”

“So what changed?”

Miss Stray looked at the stone.

“Nothing about the stone.”

“What, then?”

“The relation.”

Blottisham nodded slowly.

“Because it happened beside us.”

“Yes.”

“But that's not enough.”

“No.”

“Unless we take it up.”

“Yes.”

Blottisham picked up the stone.

He put it on the table.

Nobody spoke.

He looked at it.

Then at the others.

“I don't know what this means.”

Quillibrace smiled.

“You don't have to.”

Blottisham nodded.

After a moment he said:

“But I think we should leave it there.”

Miss Stray smiled.

“Why?”

Blottisham looked at the stone.

“It seems right.”

From somewhere outside came the sound of a train.

The station clock struck breakfast.

Nobody corrected it.

The Town Where Things Happened Beside One Another

Clara arrived in Bellwether on a Tuesday morning and immediately noticed that the station was waiting for a train.

The train was not waiting for the station.

This seemed reasonable.

The station had been waiting for some time.

A porter stood on the platform with a large umbrella.

It was raining underneath him.

Not heavily.

Just enough to make the ground beneath the umbrella wet.

Clara stopped.

“Excuse me.”

The porter looked at her.

“Yes?”

“Is the rain supposed to be doing that?”

“No.”

He looked down.

“It's very careless.”

He moved the umbrella six feet to the left.

The rain moved with it.

“Better,” he said.

Clara looked at the sky.

It was perfectly dry.

---

The station clock said breakfast.

The café clock said ten past eleven.

The clock on the platform said SOON.

Clara asked the porter which was correct.

“They all are.”

“How?”

The porter shrugged.

“They're different sorts of clocks.”

“What sort?”

He pointed at the first.

“That one tells you what time it is.”

The second.

“That one tells you when to eat.”

The third.

“That one tells you what happens next.”

Clara looked at it.

The minute hand was moving backwards.

“What happens next?”

“Usually something else.”

---

She left the station.

The town was unusually busy.

A man was walking a dog.

The dog was walking the man.

A woman was carrying a chair.

The chair was carrying a small parcel.

A boy was pushing a bicycle.

The bicycle was pushing the boy.

Nobody seemed concerned.

Clara stopped beside the woman.

“Is that your chair?”

“Yes.”

“Why is it carrying the parcel?”

“Because I am carrying the chair.”

“But the chair is carrying the parcel.”

“Yes.”

“So you're carrying the chair while the chair is carrying the parcel.”

“That's right.”

“Does that make you responsible for the parcel?”

The woman thought.

“No.”

She looked at the chair.

“The chair is.”

The chair said nothing.

---

At the bakery, the baker was taking loaves out of the oven.

They were still dough.

Clara watched him put them on the counter.

“Shouldn't they be baked?”

“They are.”

“They look like dough.”

“They've been baked.”

“But—”

The baker pointed to a loaf.

“That's the important thing.”

“What is?”

“That it remembers being bread.”

Clara touched it.

It was warm.

The loaf expanded slightly.

The baker nodded.

“See?”

“What?”

“It knows.”

Clara looked at the loaf.

The loaf looked back.

She decided not to buy it.

The baker seemed relieved.

---

In the square there was a statue.

It depicted a man sitting on a bench.

The man was not sitting on the bench.

The bench was sitting on him.

Clara walked around it.

A plaque said:

TO THE MEMORY OF THE MAN WHO SAT BESIDE THE PLACE WHERE HE WAS.

Below this was written:

HE IS REMEMBERED HERE.

A little further down:

HE WAS NEVER HERE.

And beneath that:

PLEASE DO NOT DISTURB HIS MEMORY.

Clara stepped back.

The statue moved slightly.

“Excuse me,” she said.

The statue did not answer.

A woman passing by whispered:

“He's shy.”

“Who?”

“The statue.”

“But it's a statue.”

“Yes.”

“Of a man.”

“Yes.”

“Who isn't here.”

“No.”

Clara looked at the woman.

The woman smiled.

“You're beginning to understand.”

---

At noon, Clara went to the café.

The waiter placed a plate in front of her.

There was nothing on it.

“What is this?”

“Lunch.”

“There isn't anything.”

“Exactly.”

“Exactly what?”

“Nothing.”

Clara looked at the waiter.

“Is this a joke?”

“No.”

“Then what am I supposed to eat?”

“Nothing.”

“And that is lunch?”

“Yes.”

She waited.

After a while the waiter returned.

“How was it?”

“Very filling.”

“Excellent.”

He took the empty plate away.

Clara watched him carry it into the kitchen.

There was a loud crunch.

The waiter returned with crumbs on his apron.

“What happened?”

He looked embarrassed.

“Nothing.”

---

In the afternoon Clara found the library.

The librarian was standing on a table reading a book.

“Why are you standing on the table?”

“I'm trying to get down.”

“There is a chair.”

“Yes.”

“Why don't you use it?”

“It's too far away.”

“The chair is right beside you.”

The librarian looked at the chair.

“No.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's beside me.”

“Yes.”

“So it can't be beside me if I'm beside it.”

Clara thought about this.

“That doesn't follow.”

The librarian smiled.

“Good.”

She climbed down.

---

Clara spent the rest of the afternoon walking.

She began to notice a pattern.

Nothing in Bellwether was quite where it ought to be.

The river flowed uphill.

The bridge crossed the road.

The road crossed the bridge.

The post office delivered people.

The people received letters.

A clock was hanging from a tree.

The tree was growing from the clock.

At the edge of town a man was digging a hole.

“What are you digging?”

“Yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“How will you know when you've found it?”

“I'll remember.”

---

Clara walked on.

She reached a field.

There was a house in the middle of it.

The house had no walls.

Only windows.

Inside every window was another field.

In the middle of each field was another house.

Clara looked through one window.

A woman was looking through another window.

The woman saw Clara.

She waved.

Clara waved back.

The woman looked puzzled.

Then she closed her window.

Clara waited.

A moment later her own window closed.

She was standing in the field.

There was no house.

Only a door.

The door stood upright in the grass.

She opened it.

On the other side was Bellwether.

But it was night.

People were walking backwards.

The rain was falling upwards.

The dog was walking the man.

The man was walking the dog.

Clara closed the door.

When she opened it again, it was morning.

---

She returned to the square.

The statue was gone.

The bench remained.

A man was sitting on it.

He looked exactly like the statue.

“Excuse me,” Clara said.

The man looked up.

“Yes?”

“Were you here before?”

“Yes.”

“Were you the statue?”

“No.”

“Were you the man in the statue?”

“No.”

“Then who were you?”

He smiled.

“I was the man who was sitting beside the place where I was.”

Clara stared at him.

“Where are you now?”

He looked around.

“I'm not sure.”

She sat beside him.

They were quiet.

After a while he said:

“You're getting used to it.”

“To what?”

“To things happening beside one another.”

“What does that mean?”

He pointed across the square.

The bakery was beside the café.

The café was beside the library.

The library was beside the station.

The station was beside the river.

The river was beside the sky.

The sky was beside Clara.

She looked up.

The sky seemed very close.

“What happens when things don't belong together?”

The man considered this.

“They don't.”

“Then why are they here?”

“Because they're beside one another.”

“That isn't enough.”

“No.”

He stood.

“It's just usually enough.”

---

That evening Clara returned to the station.

The porter was still there.

The umbrella was now standing on the platform.

The porter was beneath the rain.

“Leaving?” he asked.

“I think so.”

“Where to?”

“Home.”

He looked at the timetable.

There was no train to Home.

“There is a train to Yesterday.”

“No.”

“Tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Somewhere else?”

Clara thought.

“Yes.”

The porter nodded.

“That one leaves at midnight.”

“What is it called?”

He pointed to the departure board.

It said:

NEXT TRAIN

“Where does it go?”

The porter smiled.

“It goes next.”

At midnight the train arrived.

It had no carriages.

Only windows.

Clara looked inside.

Through every window she could see Bellwether.

In one, the postman watered the letters.

In another, the baker baked the dough.

In another, the man sat beside the place where he was.

In another, Clara herself was standing on the platform.

She looked directly at her.

Clara stepped closer.

The other Clara stepped closer too.

They stopped at the same distance.

Neither could get any nearer.

The porter blew his whistle.

“Are you coming?”

“Where?”

“Next.”

Clara looked at the other Clara.

The other Clara smiled.

Then she stepped backwards.

The window became empty.

Clara climbed aboard.

The train moved.

Or perhaps the station did.

She couldn't tell.

Outside the window, Bellwether remained beside itself.

The rain fell upwards.

The clocks told breakfast.

The river flowed towards the sky.

And somewhere, in a field outside town, a man was still digging yesterday.

Clara watched until the town disappeared.

Then she noticed something on the seat beside her.

A small card.

It read:

THINGS DO NOT HAVE TO BELONG TO ONE ANOTHER TO HAPPEN TOGETHER.

On the back was another sentence.

THAT IS HOW A TOWN BEGINS.

Clara turned the card over again.

The first sentence had disappeared.

The second now read:

THAT IS HOW A TOWN ENDS.

She looked out the window.

Bellwether was still there.

Beside her.

The Senior Common Room Discusses The Town Where Everything Was Being Used for Something Else

The Senior Common Room was quiet.

Professor Quillibrace was reading.

Miss Stray was drinking tea.

Mr Blottisham was standing beside the fireplace with an expression of considerable suspicion.

“I have been mentioned.”

Quillibrace turned a page.

“Yes.”

Miss Stray looked up.

“Where?”

“In the story.”

“Which story?”

“The latest one.”

Miss Stray smiled.

“Ah.”

Blottisham folded his arms.

“My name was on an envelope.”

Quillibrace nodded.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I assume the author knows.”

Blottisham looked at him.

“Do you?”

“No.”

“That is unsatisfactory.”

“I have learned to live with it.”

Blottisham sat down.

“I don't like it.”

Miss Stray smiled.

“Why not?”

“Because I wasn't doing anything.”

“That may be why you were selected.”

Blottisham frowned.

“I see.”

He thought about this.

“I still don't like it.”

---

Quillibrace closed his book.

“So.”

“So?”

“The story.”

“Yes.”

“What do you think it is about?”

“Misuse.”

“Of objects?”

“Obviously.”

Miss Stray shook her head.

“Not quite.”

Blottisham looked pleased.

“Then I shall explain it.”

Quillibrace sighed.

“Of course.”

Blottisham stood.

“The town has forgotten the proper uses of things.”

“Yes.”

“So the baker sweeps bread, the postman waters letters, people read shoes, and the porter polishes loaves.”

“Yes.”

“Therefore civilisation is collapsing.”

“No.”

Blottisham paused.

“Why not?”

“Because they are still able to use the objects.”

“They're using them incorrectly.”

“Incorrectly according to what?”

“Their proper uses.”

“What makes those proper?”

Blottisham looked irritated.

“They're what the objects are for.”

Miss Stray leaned forward.

“Are they?”

Blottisham stared at her.

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“Because that's what they're used for.”

“That is circular.”

“No, it isn't.”

“It rather is.”

Blottisham thought.

“A hammer is for hammering.”

“Usually.”

“A cup is for drinking.”

“Usually.”

“A shoe is for wearing.”

“Usually.”

“A book is for reading.”

“Usually.”

Blottisham looked triumphant.

“There.”

Quillibrace said, “And yet books can be used to prop open doors.”

“That's misuse.”

“They can also be used to press flowers.”

“Misuse.”

“To hit someone.”

“Definitely misuse.”

“To level a table.”

Blottisham hesitated.

“Still misuse.”

Quillibrace smiled.

“Then perhaps you are distinguishing between an object's conventional use and its possible use.”

Blottisham sat down.

“That sounds unnecessarily complicated.”

“It is also rather important.”

---

Miss Stray picked up a spoon.

“What makes this a spoon?”

Blottisham looked at it.

“It's a spoon.”

“That isn't an answer.”

“It's an excellent answer.”

“What makes it a spoon rather than something else?”

Blottisham inspected it.

“It has the shape.”

“Would a spoon-shaped piece of wood be a spoon?”

“Yes.”

“A spoon-shaped drawing?”

“No.”

“A very realistic photograph of a spoon?”

“No.”

“A spoon used as a paperweight?”

“Yes.”

“A spoon used to dig a hole?”

“Yes.”

“A spoon used as a musical instrument?”

Blottisham hesitated.

“If it makes music.”

“So its use doesn't determine what it is.”

“No.”

“But use helps determine what it can be for.”

“Yes.”

“And the story keeps moving that distinction around.”

Quillibrace nodded.

“The object remains what it is while its possible uses proliferate.”

Miss Stray added:

“And some uses become conventional.”

Blottisham looked at the spoon.

“That's what the town has forgotten.”

“What?”

“That objects have histories of use.”

Quillibrace smiled.

“Now you're getting somewhere.”

---

Blottisham stood again.

“But the story goes further.”

“It does.”

“The strange thing isn't merely that objects can have different uses.”

“No.”

“It is that the people can recognise a use as appropriate without being able to explain why.”

Miss Stray nodded.

“Exactly.”

“The cup goes here.”

“Yes.”

“The spoon goes there.”

“Yes.”

“The shoe belongs beside the cup.”

“Perhaps.”

Blottisham frowned.

“That's the bit I don't like.”

“Why?”

“Because I did that in the last story.”

Quillibrace looked at him.

“You recognised the runcible without knowing what it was.”

“Yes.”

“You seem to have noticed the connection.”

“I don't like that either.”

Miss Stray smiled.

“You've acquired another distinction.”

“Don't say that.”

---

There was a knock at the door.

A young man entered carrying a shoe.

Blottisham stared at him.

“No.”

The man looked confused.

“I haven't said anything.”

“You're not bringing that in here.”

“Why?”

“Because we've had enough shoes.”

The man looked at the shoe.

Then at Blottisham.

“What should I do with it?”

“Wear it.”

“It's too small.”

“Then throw it away.”

The man considered this.

“Could I use it as a cup?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Blottisham opened his mouth.

Stopped.

Miss Stray watched him.

Quillibrace waited.

Blottisham looked at the shoe.

Finally he said:

“You could.”

The young man smiled.

“Thank you.”

He left.

Blottisham sat down.

“I've made a terrible mistake.”

“No,” said Miss Stray.

“You've made a useful one.”

“I don't want useful mistakes.”

“Nobody does.”

---

Quillibrace picked up his book again.

“The story is also about something more subtle.”

“What?”

“The difference between an object's affordances and its conventional uses.”

Blottisham groaned.

“Must we?”

“Yes.”

“Fine.”

“An object may make certain actions possible without those actions being part of its established social use.”

“The spoon can dig.”

“Yes.”

“The cup can hold a key.”

“Yes.”

“The shoe can hold water.”

“Yes.”

“The book can prop open a door.”

“Yes.”

“But then the town begins deliberately using things in unusual ways.”

“Yes.”

“And eventually those unusual uses begin to stabilise.”

Miss Stray nodded.

“They become practices.”

“And once enough people participate in the practice—”

“It becomes intelligible.”

“Even without anyone deciding that it should.”

“Yes.”

Blottisham looked thoughtful.

“So the town is making new uses.”

“Or discovering possibilities that were already there.”

“Which?”

Miss Stray smiled.

“That may be the wrong question.”

Blottisham groaned again.

“Everyone in this conversation keeps doing that.”

---

There was a pause.

Then Blottisham said:

“The Dalek.”

Quillibrace looked up.

“Yes.”

“The Dalek is the important part.”

Miss Stray smiled.

“Why?”

“Because it demonstrates the principle perfectly.”

“How?”

“A Dalek is for exterminating.”

“Yes.”

“A garden has weeds.”

“Yes.”

“The Dalek sees weeds.”

“Yes.”

“So it exterminates the weeds.”

Quillibrace nodded.

“And?”

“And it turns out to be gardening.”

Miss Stray laughed.

Blottisham became animated.

“The action is perfectly intelligible from the Dalek's point of view. It doesn't need a separate concept called gardening. It needs extermination plus weeds.”

Quillibrace considered this.

“That is actually rather good.”

“I know.”

“The meaning of the action emerges from the relation among the participant, the object, and the situation.”

“Yes!”

Blottisham pointed at him.

“You see?”

“I see.”

“So the Dalek is not misusing its weapon.”

“Not necessarily.”

“It is using it appropriately for an unusual purpose.”

“Perhaps.”

“And that means the distinction between proper and improper use is not located entirely in the object.”

Miss Stray nodded.

“It's partly in the relation.”

Blottisham sat back.

“I knew there was a reason I liked that Dalek.”

---

Quillibrace looked at him.

“There is another problem.”

“What?”

“If a thing can be used for many purposes, does it follow that it has no proper use?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because some uses become established.”

“By whom?”

“People.”

“Through what?”

“History.”

Miss Stray smiled.

“Exactly.”

Blottisham looked at the spoon again.

“So a use can become conventional because people keep doing it.”

“Yes.”

“And then the convention becomes part of what the object means in a situation.”

“Yes.”

“And then someone can deliberately violate the convention.”

“Yes.”

“And that's funny.”

“Sometimes.”

“Because we recognise the conventional use and the alternative one simultaneously.”

Quillibrace nodded.

“Now you are very close to nonsense.”

Blottisham smiled.

“I knew there was a reason I liked nonsense.”

---

He suddenly stood.

“I have an experiment.”

“No,” said Quillibrace.

“I haven't told you what it is.”

“I know you.”

Blottisham picked up a book.

He placed it on the floor.

Then he placed a cup on it.

Then the spoon in the cup.

Then the shoe beside the spoon.

He stepped back.

“There.”

Miss Stray looked at the arrangement.

“What is it?”

Blottisham smiled.

“I don't know.”

Quillibrace stared at it.

“Then why have you done it?”

Blottisham considered the question.

“It seemed right.”

Nobody spoke.

Then Miss Stray began to laugh.

Quillibrace looked at the arrangement again.

“I believe,” he said, “we may have a problem.”

“What problem?”

“The experiment has become meaningful.”

Blottisham looked delighted.

“Excellent.”

---

A noise came from the corridor.

A metallic voice said:

“EXTERMINATE.”

Everyone looked at the door.

There was a flash of light beneath it.

Blottisham stood.

“Do you think it has come for the weeds?”

Quillibrace said, “I sincerely hope so.”

The door opened.

Nobody was there.

On the floor was a single envelope.

Blottisham picked it up.

His expression changed.

The envelope was addressed to:

MR P. BLOTTISHAM

He opened it.

Inside was a blank sheet of paper.

“What does it say?” asked Miss Stray.

“Nothing.”

“Then why was it sent to you?”

Blottisham looked at the blank paper.

“I don't know.”

He put it on the table.

Then he looked at the spoon.

Then the cup.

Then the shoe.

Then the book.

“I think,” he said slowly, “it's being used for something.”

Quillibrace nodded.

“What?”

Blottisham smiled.

“I don't know.”

Miss Stray looked at the blank page.

“Perhaps that's the point.”

There was another metallic sound from the corridor.

Blottisham turned towards the door.

“Should we investigate?”

Quillibrace said, “Why?”

Blottisham thought about it.

Then he sat down again.

“I don't know.”

A pause.

“It seemed right.”

From outside came the faint sound of something being watered.

Nobody went to look.

The Town Where Everything Was Being Used for Something Else

Clara knew something was wrong with Bellwether when she saw the postman watering the letters.

He was standing outside the post office with a green watering can.

Every few seconds he tipped it over a bundle of envelopes.

“Excuse me,” Clara said.

The postman looked up.

“Yes?”

“What are you doing?”

“Watering the letters.”

“I can see that.”

“Good.”

“But why?”

The postman considered the question.

“They're growing.”

Clara looked at the envelopes.

They appeared to be ordinary envelopes.

One had a stamp.

Another had a coffee stain.

A third was addressed to someone called Mr P. Blottisham.

“Letters don't grow.”

The postman looked at her.

“Not yours, perhaps.”

He watered them again.

---

At the bakery, the baker was sweeping the bread.

At the butcher's, a woman was weighing a clock.

At the railway station, the porter was polishing a loaf of bread.

Clara stopped him.

“Why are you polishing that?”

“So it will arrive clean.”

“Where is it going?”

“Platform three.”

“Is there a train?”

“Of course.”

“Does the bread have a ticket?”

The porter looked offended.

“Don't be ridiculous.”

Clara waited.

He handed her the loaf.

It was warm.

“Then what does have the ticket?”

“The passenger.”

“Where is the passenger?”

The porter pointed at the loaf.

Clara looked at him.

The porter looked at Clara.

“It's been a difficult morning,” he said.

---

In the square, a woman was reading a shoe.

She turned the pages carefully.

Clara stopped beside her.

“Is that a book?”

“No.”

“Then what is it?”

“A shoe.”

“It looks like a book.”

“It has pages.”

“But it's a shoe.”

“Yes.”

“Why are you reading it?”

The woman looked surprised.

“Why wouldn't I?”

Clara had no answer.

The woman turned another page.

It was blank.

She frowned.

“That's odd.”

“What?”

“It's lost its sole.”

She closed the shoe.

---

Clara went to the café.

The waiter brought her a cup of coffee.

She looked into it.

There was a small key floating on the surface.

“What's that?”

“A key.”

“In my coffee?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The waiter shrugged.

“It was the right place for it.”

Clara removed the key.

The waiter looked disappointed.

“Could you put it back?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I want to drink my coffee.”

The waiter thought about this.

“Fair enough.”

He took the key and put it in his pocket.

Then he gave her another cup.

This one contained a small spoon.

Clara stared at him.

He stared back.

“Don't worry,” he said.

“It's only a spoon.”

---

She went to the library.

The librarian was asleep on a ladder.

Clara waited.

Eventually the librarian opened one eye.

“Can I help you?”

“I hope so.”

“What are you looking for?”

“I don't know.”

“Excellent.”

“I've noticed something strange about the town.”

“So have we.”

“People are using things for the wrong purposes.”

The librarian climbed down.

“Wrong according to whom?”

Clara hesitated.

“According to what they're for.”

The librarian smiled.

“And how do you know what they're for?”

Clara opened her mouth.

Closed it.

The librarian nodded.

“That's usually where the trouble begins.”

She led Clara through the library.

There were books on chairs.

Chairs on shelves.

Clocks hanging from the floor.

A bicycle stood in the dictionary section.

“What is that doing here?”

“Being a bicycle.”

“It's in the library.”

“Yes.”

“Bicycles aren't for libraries.”

“Neither are dictionaries.”

Clara looked at her.

The librarian continued walking.

---

At the back of the library was a room Clara had never seen before.

Inside were hundreds of objects.

A hammer was being used as a doorstop.

A doorstop was being used as a hammer.

A teapot was being used as a hat.

A hat was being used as a teapot.

A map was being used to wrap a parcel.

A parcel was being used to mark a place on a map.

A photograph was being used as a window.

A window was being used as a photograph.

Clara stared.

“What is this?”

“The room of other uses.”

“Why does it exist?”

“To remind people.”

“Of what?”

The librarian picked up a teapot.

“That things don't come with their uses written on them.”

Clara looked around.

“But surely some things have obvious uses.”

“Of course.”

“Then why all this?”

The librarian put the teapot on her head.

“Because obvious isn't the same as necessary.”

---

Clara left the library.

At the corner she saw the postman again.

He was no longer watering letters.

He was planting them.

She stopped.

“What happened?”

“They've stopped growing.”

“So you're planting them?”

“I'm trying something else.”

“Do you know what will happen?”

“No.”

“Then why do it?”

The postman smiled.

“Because it might.”

He pushed an envelope into the soil.

Clara noticed something written on it.

It was her own name.

---

That evening she returned to the café.

The waiter was sitting at a table.

There was a shoe in front of him.

A spoon was beside it.

A cup was on the floor.

A letter was standing upright in the sugar bowl.

“What happened?”

The waiter looked tired.

“Everything has become confused.”

“How?”

“We've been using things for other things.”

“But you were doing that yesterday.”

“Yes.”

“And the day before.”

“Yes.”

“So what's different?”

The waiter looked at the objects.

“We've forgotten which use was the other one.”

Clara sat down.

For a while neither spoke.

Then she picked up the spoon.

She put it in the cup.

The waiter watched.

“Yes,” he said.

“What?”

“That.”

“What about it?”

“It looks right.”

Clara looked at the spoon in the cup.

She wasn't sure why.

But it did.

The waiter put the shoe beside the cup.

That looked right too.

The letter went into the shoe.

Then the key went onto the table.

Then the clock was placed beneath the table.

Nobody said why.

Nobody needed to.

---

The next morning Clara found the whole town in the square.

Everyone was carrying something.

The baker held a clock.

The postman held a loaf.

The librarian carried a bicycle.

The porter carried a book.

The woman who had been reading the shoe held a tree branch.

Nobody seemed to know what to do with any of it.

Then the baker stepped forward.

He put the clock on the ground.

The porter placed the book on top of it.

The librarian put the bicycle beside the book.

The postman laid the loaf across the bicycle.

The woman put the branch on the loaf.

Everyone waited.

Nothing happened.

Clara laughed.

She couldn't help it.

“What's the point?”

Nobody answered.

Then the clock began to tick.

The book opened.

The bicycle rolled forward.

The loaf fell.

The branch landed on the ground.

Everyone watched.

The woman looked at Clara.

“There.”

“There what?”

“We've done it.”

“Done what?”

The woman smiled.

“We've found out what they were for.”

Clara looked at the objects.

“They weren't for those things.”

“No.”

“They were for something else.”

“Yes.”

“What?”

The woman looked around the square.

“I don't know.”

---

The next day the town returned to normal.

The postman delivered letters.

The baker baked bread.

The butcher weighed meat.

The porter ran trains.

The librarian put books on shelves.

The woman stopped reading shoes.

At the café, Clara ordered coffee.

The waiter brought it.

No key.

No spoon.

No shoe.

Just coffee.

Clara drank it.

Then she noticed something.

The spoon was on the wrong side of the saucer.

She moved it.

The waiter looked over.

He smiled.

“Thank you.”

Clara looked at him.

“You knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That it was wrong.”

He shook his head.

“No.”

“Then how did you know to thank me?”

He looked at the spoon.

Then at Clara.

“I didn't.”

A pause.

“It just seemed right.”

Outside, a Dalek trundled slowly past the café.

It stopped beside the garden.

It looked at the weeds.

Then at its extermination ray.

Then at the weeds again.

Clara watched through the window.

The Dalek raised its weapon.

“EXTERMINATE.”

There was a flash.

The garden became perfectly weeded.

The Dalek looked at its work.

“EXTERMINATE.”

It seemed satisfied.

Clara smiled.

Perhaps, she thought, Bellwether had finally learned the difference between a thing and what a thing could be used for.

Then she noticed that the baker was standing in the doorway of the café.

He was holding a watering can.

He looked at Clara.

She looked at him.

Neither of them said anything.

He walked over to the table.

And watered the coffee.