I wake around 10am with a headache and the remnants of a dream about working in a café, owned by Bruce Forsythe, being hit by a tsunami. Further details are vague and fade fast. I find that my wife has been up for a while, having left a cup of tea for me, which has now gone cold. I drink the cold tea in an effort to rehydrate from last night’s beer.

Attempting to read, I flick through the last few pages of the book my mother sent me, My Grandmother Sends Her Regards And Apologies by Fredik Backman. It is a whimsical, Scandinavian tale, examining memory and grief, from a child’s perspective. A page or two is enjoyed, before my hunger becomes too distracting.

I almost trip over the ghost cat on the landing. Lurching, I turn. It has vanished.

The house seems empty. My son stayed over at his friend’s place, last night. The front door is ajar, meaning that my daughter is out roller-skating. My wife is in the back garden, trimming the hedges. I boil the kettle and fill a bowl with Bran Flakes.

After taking my wife a cup of tea, I finish my breakfast and then head out to the supermarket. The day is mild, grey and overcast. Avalon Emerson’s new EP, Perpetual Emotion Machine, is blasting in my earbuds as I take the shortcut to Asda, through the woods. The path is deserted. I head-nod my way along the track, accompanied by the acid house in my ears.

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Turing a corner, I am shocked to see Mother Erith, the most powerful nature deity of the borough, sitting quietly, all alone on a park bench. Her hands are folded neatly in her lap and her eyes are closed. Even in such repose, Mother Erith is an imposing figure. Sitting up straight, with her antlers, she is just as tall as me. It is unusual to see the goddess in such a conspicuous spot.

I switch off my music, walking on tiptoe as I approach. You can never be too sure of Mother Erith’s mood, so I try not to disturb her meditations. She opens one eye and pats the empty space on the bench, next to her, silently instructing me to sit. She closes her eye again and I sit.

“Have you seen Shifty yet?” she asks, her voice like ancient branches creaking in a storm. It takes me a moment to realise that she is not referring to one of her many minions. “You mean the Adam Curtis documentary thing?” I say.

“Obviously,” says Mother Erith.

“Only seen the first three, so far,” I say. “It’s really good. The whole family are enjoying it. Although, maybe ‘enjoying’ isn’t the right word. My wife even recommended it to a Canadian friend, as primer for the hell is up with the British.”

“I won’t spoil how it ends,” says Mother Erith.

There is a pause as we listen to the parakeets in the trees.

“You finished writing your book?” asks the goddess.

“Yes,” I say.

“Are you happy with it?” she wonders.

“It turned out really good, in the end,” I say. “I’m chuffed with it. But, more than that, I’m relieved.”

“I will order a copy,” she says.

“There’s no need,” I say. Although, obviously I am overjoyed whenever anyone buys one of my books; especially urban nature deities.

“I always support local artists,” says Mother Erith. “What else have you been up to?”

I think for a moment and then say, “I have got into a strange habit of listening to Mike Dillahunty YouTube videos, when I’m cooking or washing up.”

“The atheist bloke?” says Mother Erith. “I thought you had already made you peace with the faithful?”

“Oh, I completely have,” I say. “I think its something to do with the format. Its a phone-in show. He asks questions, uses logic, and if the theists, who phone in, answer honestly, it ends up being a lovely exchange of ideas, where everyone comes out having learned something useful.

“But, if the caller evades the questions, or is, in any way, fallacious; Dillahunty goes full scorched-earth on them. He tears them to pieces, stamps on the little pieces, then buries the little pieces in an unmarked grave, whilst swearing the whole time.”

Mother Erith nods, sagely. “I could see the appeal in that,” she says. “It sounds sort of therapeutic.”

I agree. “I think it might be my antidote to unwatchable news broadcasts and all the gammon-time vox pops,” I say. “I just can’t take their mealy-mouthed coverage of completely indefensible behaviour anymore. Never calling-out the endless, blatant lies. Never speaking truth to power.”

Just then, two foxes appear out of the bushes. They bow to Mother Erith. “Hello, Abbie. Hello, Woody,” says the goddess. “Is it that time already?”

“They’re waiting for you at the ruins, Mother,” says one fox. With a resplendent creak, Mother Erith stands. She pauses for a moment, turns to me and says; “I was sorry to hear about your cat.” Then, she follow the foxes into the thicket and disappears from view. I continue on my way to Asda.

Back from the supermarket, the house is empty. My wife and daughter have gone to feed the pets of their latest Cat In a Flat customer. I put the shopping away and wander into the front room. From the wall, the painting of Mother Erith smiles down at me. I gave myself a hard time, when I painted it, during the pandemic. I just could not get her smile right. Now, I think it is as good as it needs to be.

I see a flash of movement in the hallway. The ghost cat again. I peer around the corner to check. There is nothing there.

My latest book, Rose-Coloured Crosshairs, is available here