The Copenhagen interpretation of deep-fried tofu

The Haus of Goth, 2010

I let myself into the Haus at about four in the afternoon. My own place, semi-affectionately dubbed The House that Cider Built, had run out of electricity again, and I needed to get some work done.

Thankfully I’d been given my own key to the Haus months ago. It was partly a gesture of trust, but mostly because Niall, Nic and Richey had gotten sick of throwing their keys down to me from their lounge window every time I turned up on their doorstep.

I turned up most days.

No one was due home for a couple of hours, so I went through to the aforementioned lounge to settle in, armed with my netbook and a fresh two-litre bottle of Pepsi. Cut me and I bleed caffeine.

The large cardboard box from the Chinese takeaway we’d ordered a couple of nights earlier was sat, rather incongruously, in the centre of the coffee table. There was a note taped to its side, a hastily-written scrawl in red permanent marker:

“There’s a bird inside. It may or may not be dead.”

Great, I thought. Schrödinger’s bird.

I dumped my stuff down on the sofa and dug my phone out to text Niall.

“WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?”

The reply came back almost instantly. Either that or time had ground to a halt in my mind as I stood, transfixed, in the aura of the bird-box.

“Cat brought in bird. No time to deal with it. Alive when I left.”

I stabbed out a reply.

“NOT CHECKING. ALSO, DON’T FANCY CHINESE TONIGHT.”

I poked the box with my phone reproachfully. Alive bird? Dead bird? Zombie bird? Hitchocockian bird? Birdzilla?

My phone went off in my hand. I jumped a sodding mile.

“Pub?”

Fuck yes.

“DEAL. POOL, CHIPS, GRAVY. NO THOUGHT EXPERIMENTS.”