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A dirty hanky is all that I have left of my life before this. Its not just any hanky though it is a silk red hanky that I used to wear in my breast pocket when I would be attending the BAFTAs. It is the red silk hanky that I would use to dry the tears of laughter as I chatted to a talk show host. It was my trademark item and that is why they let me keep it.

After the pandemic struck, life became unstuck for us all. The first wave was followed by a second, then a third and then people stopped counting until a vaccine was found. The worlds population was decimated and as that happened, nature reclaimed territory after territory. The planet flourished as humanity choked on greed and ignorance.

After a few years of sorrow, laughter was something of a distant memory. As a comedic performer my skills were not really required. Nobody wanted to see a sketch about a bumbling window cleaner while the pandemic had been weed killer to all our family trees. A life of wealth had made me soft, floundering with independence in a time which required strength and guts.

Science was the new currency, and all those labs where a vaccine had been sought, they now turned their attention to the rebuilding of humanity. Science had the keys to unlocking our capacity to pull together and rebuild a human race that worked alongside nature and celebrated equality.

That was not the future though, people had become hard on the inside and suffering was a shadow that did not fade in the night. Those scientific minds that created the vaccine became drunk on the power that the vacuum of collapsed society provided. These powermongers required a new kind of entertainment that more suited the new world they were building.

That is where I came into the picture, recognised by my face despite the years of barely surviving replacing laughter lines with worry lines. I was plucked up by these new scientific oligarchs to be a star in their televised entertainment show. Not in the way I was appeared though, as that was dead; misery and suffering were the new entertainment.

So here I find myself cowering in the wood’s nettle stung ankles and black dirt under my nails clutching a spear made from the thigh bone of a horse sharpened by a rock. Out there somewhere is the genetically recreated Tyrannosaurus Rex with the voice of Joe Pasquale and little arms with big claws. If I manage to defeat this monster than I get to live a life of luxury again and the 360 cameras will put me on the big screen again. If I lose…. well then, I will die and still the people will be entertained chanting my name one last time. Most of all though whatever happens I will still have my red hanky.

There was an open bottle of wine on the table, and an empty one on the sideboard. Kenny knew he must be in deep shit this time – half past six and his parents were sloshed, their only tactic when it came to dealing with parental confrontation.

Dad was busy holding up his own nearly empty glass to the light, twirling it by the stem and squinting with one eye as though he was appraising a diamond. Mum was sipping at her wine, knees prim together, perched on the edge of the chair.

Contrition was called for, Kenny knew, but for the life of him, he could not work out what he had done.

At last Mum started to speak. ‘It’s time to talk to you about the natural world. About…the way that the world naturally moves from Spring into Summer, and then back again.’

‘That’s right,’ Dad said. ‘And Autumn, and Winter.’ He turned his eye screwed up squint onto Mum. ‘Bloody long winters, some of them.’

Kenny looked at the bottle of wine and considered chugging it, let them bollock him about underage drinking instead. They couldn’t want to talk to him about sex, could they?

Then things got worse.

Mum said, 'Pornography.'

Dad said, 'Pornogrpahy,' and stifled another giggle.

Mum gulped at her wine. ‘Now you're a little older, we feel perhaps that it's time to acknowledge your maturity, to talk to you about it. Set some ground rules.’

Dad pointed at Kenny with his glass. ‘Yeah – use a tissue, don’t just leave some manky old hanky around for your poor Mum to clear up.’

Mum elbowed him. ‘We mean, things like relaxing some of the internet controls, but setting limits. You’re getting older, it’s an opportunity for you to demonstrate some responsibility.’

Kenny nodded, stunned at the possibilities opening up before him. How many times had he woken in the middle of the night, filled with horror that he might have forgotten to go back on the router and turn the smut blocking back on again?

Dad said, ‘We’re giving you the keys to the kingdom. You know what we had in my day? Films like the bumbling window cleaner giving his customers the full suds and rub down service, if you know what I mean.’ Dad hiccupped. ‘Nipple, that’s all we had. Maybe a little bit of bum. If we were lucky.’

Mum said, ‘Well.’ She took a big glug of wine, and tried to meet Kenny’s eye.

Dad shook his head morosely. ‘These days, all it takes is an incognito window in Chrome, then type in, oh I don't know, teen lesbo’s or double headed strap on teens, and it's all right there in front of you. You have your cougars and your panthers, and you have your Tiggers and your Pot-holers. Then there’s your bulls, your Primals, your Shintos, the bento brigade.’

Dad pointed his wine glass at Kenny again. ‘You youngsters, you have it all on a plate. You know what I had? The Argos catalogue, page three hundred and forty seven: the woman in the shower enclosure with the top of her bum showing.’

“Blooming heck! Would you look at that mess? I tell yar, tis not worth getting outta hive for.” Barry was looking at the gloop in amazement. He only got a few calls up to the canopy. Generally they got more rain up there so window cleaners were in less demand. He buzzed his way around grumbling and bumbling as was his want. ‘Still they pay well’, he thought. And with demand as it was, he had quite the sting in his tail.

He set to work and being a busy little bee, he was soon done, stopping to clean his wings with a now filthy hanky. “Gets worse and worse i tell ya.” He said to noone. Last week it had been fly tippers on the eastern border. Today, god knows what had fallen on the trees here. It was all getting messier. Which was good for business he thought. Then sighed.

He was supposed to be a window cleaner but as the insects started disappearing he took on more and more jobs. Now he was doing stem repairs, bark flaking, leaf mulching, the works. Sure hebhad more nectar than was good for him. But what's the point of there's noone to share it with.

He thought of Belinda, his queen and had to steady himself with the wave of memory that almost toppled him from the sky. No use crying over spilt honey he thought. There's work to do.

And as always it was dangerous out. He had to keep his senses keen. Folks were getting more and more desperate. Rumour had it one of the hedgehogs had got so hungry he'd taken to daytime wandering just to chance getting a free trio to the vet. Forest life was changing.

He heard the rustle of keys and the door swing open. “You done then?” Came a cautious squeak. The gloop had spread all over the bark and through the entrance into Cyril’s home. It had ruined his best tail brush and a goodly store of odds and sods, as squirrels were liken to collect. But Barry was nothing if not diligent and the place was almost back to normal.

“Nout murch I can do about the smell sorry.” Barry mumbled in response. He could see Cyril assess the damage, noted his concern for the tree, which was palpable in his nervous twitches. He turned to Barry, “You've done all you can. thank you. How much do I owe you?”He asked hesitantly.

Barry looked around, and gritted his antenna. “I durnt like to do this you know, where theres work, theres a wage’ that's what I always say. But that being said...there's no charge this time. You've got enough to worry about.”

Cyril smiled in delight. “You are one of a kind,” he said.

“Let's hope not hey.” Barry replied. “Right I'll bee off, ‘whilst the petals open’ and all that”. Barry floating over to the exit. He paused, turning back to Cyril.

“We’ve gotta look out for each other now. You hear me? It’s us against them. And they don't care who gets in their way. Maybe its time nature stopped fighting each other and focused on a common enemy.”

Cyril looked back at him, fear and excitement flashed across his face. Barry turned again and buzzed off into the cool evening air.

The air of excitement was palpable at the Abco building. Everyone from Finance to Building Control was excited about explorer and naturalist Simon Hattenstone-Flitch giving the team building speech this year.

Posh, handsome and possessing both an army background and impeccable green credentials, there was something for everyone to admire in the presenter of “Canoeing with Crocodiles”. All were looking forward to his speech “Teamwork in the Natural World”.

They flocked to the glass atrium-style conference building like a slice of lemmings headed for a cliff and mingled like a colony of penguins before swelling like a mummeration of starlings when they heard the adventurer had navigated his way into the building.

At that moment Les Dawkes, a window cleaner from Epping was slowly descending the glass face of the atrium in his cradle, no one, had informed him about any conference.

Hattenstone-Flitch strode onto the stage to hysterical applause that sounded like a pandemonium of parrots.

“What a welcome” he said before raising his hands like a religious leader and launching straight into his first joke about the day Chris Packham, Ben Fogle and himself had all turned up at a badger sett with different camera crews. He couldn’t believe the hysterical reaction he received, the audience sounded like a riot of kookaburras.

What he could not see was that at this precise moment Les Dawkes, with back to the assembled throng had leant forward, almost out of his cradle and revealed his not inconsiderable, window cleaner’s bottom to the assembly.

The rugged hearththrob continued his speech, and things settled down again, what a great start.

A few moments later the intrepid pioneer tried a second joke, he wasn’t noted for his humour, but this was going so well, he felt emboldened. The one about his name getting mixed up with that of Ray Mears on the One Show was substandard, even by his levels, so he was surprised to hear his audience roaring like a cartload of howler monkeys.

Behind him Les, was leaning even further out of his cradle than before, once more revealing his rose-hewed arse which resembled that of a Mandrill.

The audience composed itself again and Hattenstone-Flitch continued, warming to his theme “It is only by teamwork” he declared sombrely “That we can stop an area of rainforest the size of Wales from disappearing every day. Thousands of species including the white rhino are now on the verge of extinction!”

His audience failed to show the required gravitas, instead collapsing into hysterics reminiscent of a cackle of hyenas as, in the window, Les knelt on the rail of his cradle suspended only by his safety equipment, his unbelted trousers round his knees. He seemed to be grasping at thin air.

Hattenstone-Flitch stormed offstage in disbelief, if this was all people cared about the environment he might as well give up, “I’m not a fucking performing monkey” he shouted, as he stepped into his air-conditioned car and was driven away.

Meanwhile, on the window cleaning cradle the oblivious Les was holding in his filthy handkerchief the tiny baby bird he’d rescued from its precarious position on a thin wire ready to place it gently back into its nest on the ledge. It had been a good morning’s work and he was ready for some grub.

Alan had started at the museum a full two days before Steve, just a week after his seventeenth birthday. He’d been handed three pairs of crisp new overalls in deep navy and a gleaming cart that he had cared for as if it was a prize racehorse. He introduced himself proudly to Steve as the museum’s handyman and cleaner.

Steve had smiled and shaken his hand, shown him the enormous bundle of shiny keys at his belt and accepted a cup of strong coffee from Alan’s new green thermos.

Down the decades the pair had watched museum exhibits come and go, while they remained, a comforting fixture and reminder of the old days.

Now the overalls were more grey than navy, much patched and darned at the elbows. The cart had a squeaky wheel and a dodgy brake and a tendency to veer left if given its head and Steve’s keys had long been replaced with a single, lonely fob.

The green thermos was still going strong. At 4.30, as the museum closed its doors for the day, they would meet at the turtle skeletons in the natural history section and Alan produce two stainless steel mugs - red for Steve, blue for himself - and pour them both a cup of hot, black coffee.

“Decent day Steve?”

“Not bad, aye. Yourself?”

“Can’t complain.”

And, after all, what else was there to say? Their silence warmed the drafty halls as much as the coffee did.

Wednesday was Steve’s day off and Sundays were Alan’s and those days never felt quite right for either of them, though neither would be able to put a finger on exactly why.

On Sundays Steve would go visit the turtles anyway. He found their little skeletons fascinating and would press his face against the glass to get a better look at them. But before he left he would always take care to wipe away any marks with the hanky in his pocket, so he didn’t make extra work for his friend

And on Mondays Alan would smile, take out his bottle of glass cleaner and a special glass cloth patiently wipe Steve’s signature smear away and never let on that he’d seen it at all.

Then, one Monday, Alan arrived for work and, as usual, went straight to the turtle skeletons,the necessary bottle to hand, only to find the glass perfectly clean. Frowning, he hurried back to the front desk, but instead of Steve’s comfortable frame leaning back in the sagging chair he saw a thin young woman who stood up briskly.

Her face was serious when she told him, but her voice was impatient. It had been sudden, she’d said, nothing anyone could have done and she hoped it wouldn’t have too much impact on Alan’s work. And she was gone.

Alan walked back to the turtles and stared at the unnaturally clean glass like it was an affront. Slowly he pressed his face into its surface fogging it with the heat of his breath and staring in at the little skeletons.

Then Alan took out his own spotlessly clean handkerchief and wiped the glass once, leaving Steve’s signature smear one last time.

‘Wow, you look rough!’

That was how she greeted me, she was right though.

‘Coffee?’

I nodded without taking my head out of my hands. Ellie made the order, hovered at the counter smiling judgmentally in my direction, and eventually brought the two steaming mugs over to where my body sat decaying.

‘Mate, you stink too!’

I didn’t react.

‘So, what happened that required the breakfast SOS?’ Ellie finally asked.

I raised my eyes, and offered a fraction of a smile.

‘Who?’

‘Tim,’ I sighed.

‘Again? Jeez, Sam…’ my full-time friend, part-time counsellor, shook her head, as I deserved. ‘I won’t ask the gory details, how have you left it?’

She knew how I’d left it, it was barely mid-morning and I was sat with her in a coffee shop, slowly dying. Well, she knew the gist, she had no idea about the full ordeal. How I’d woken when the window cleaner bumbled against the uncovered window, staring in, as if we were some nature exhibit. How I’d lay there anyway, naked, with a clammy human draped over me, too busy trying not to weep or vomit to worry about his peeping. How it hadn’t been long before the pressure from my bladder, and the desire to leave, forced me to deal more actively with my situation. I could tell Ellie how I twisted with olympic standard finesse until Tim’s limbs were no longer weighing on my own. How I’d pulled my head into enough focus to survey the room, spotting my dress and shoes across the floor, my bag hanging from the doorknob. Ellie would probably be quite impressed by the delicate athleticism I’d displayed to gather each item as I stepped around the bed and towards the door. Turning to look at the wheezing lump I’d left behind, I’d spotted a ball of off-white material stuffed under one of his thighs, which could equally have been my knickers, or the dirty hanky he carried everywhere. I hated that thing. Either way, I wasn’t venturing to find out, so, unwilling to risk the noise of Tim’s ensuite, I’d slipped out of the room. I could tell her how I rolled the dress over myself, tip-toed down the stairs, and turned the key, reliably left in the door, to set myself free.

I could tell Ellie how, having achieved one of my needs, I instantly felt the overwhelming pressure of the other, took four huge strides round the corner of the house, hitched up the hem of my recently re-adorned garment, bent at the knees, and released.

I could tell her how it was there I began my Saturday, red-eyed and crouched over a drain while my bladder rapidly voided, with only a potted conifer concealing me from the bungalows opposite, and steam of my own making clouding around my bare backside.

‘I left him asleep,’ was all I said.

‘Cash on the bedside table?’ Ellie laughed at me again, and we both paused to drink our coffees.

‘You best get home and shower,’ she followed. ‘It’s Abbie’s christening at twelve.

My head dropped so fast toward the table that Ellie had to yank my mug away before I ended up face first in flat white.

Mummy, what’s the natural world?

A collection of all the natural things.

Right, so like everything is the natural world?

Well, no, not really, computers aren’t the natural world. They’re made by us.

So things made by people are not natural?

It depends on the thing really.

What about daisies?

They’re definitely part of the natural world.

OK, ok, what about if I get all these daisies and turn them into a daisy chain?

Um, i think in that case the daisy chain would not be part of the natural world, though daisies themselves would be.

So a computer isn’t part of the natural world, but the things that make it are. Like computer keys?

I think most of the things inside a computer are actually made by people. Some of the bits within those bits too, so really it’s all man made.

What about Intel Quad Core processors?

Jesus. How do you know about them?

Mummy, everybody knows about processors nowadays.

Do they? Well no, intel thingamajiggies are not part of the natural world.

Who decides what is and isn’t part of this natural world?

No one does, it just is or isn’t.

...

...

So how do I get to the natural world?

The world we live in is man made, but the natural world is still all around us. I’d say we’re both part of the natural world.

But Sally’s mum said that when a mummy and a daddy love each other, they decide to make a baby. Doesn’t that mean that, if so fact so, I’m not part of the natural world?

If so fact so? Where did you hear that?

Stephen Fry.

Well honey, it’s ipso facto/

It’s definitely ‘if so fact so,’ like ‘if that’s so, then it’s a fact, so there.’

That’s very sweet. Making you was a different kind of process, and one I’ll explain another time.

Is there any way of putting something back into the natural world?

I guess/

How?

Remember last week we had that bumbling window cleaner round?

Hehe, yes

Well, despite mummy telling him to be careful of the sash windows he still managed to smash one/

You were very shouty

The shards of glass we threw away will eventually wear down to sand, and sand is part of the natural world.

So if I wanted to send something to the natural world, I just wear it down?

It’s not really an actual, separate world though lovely. Why do you ask?

On TV Stephen Fry said that when we die we go back to the natural world and become entangaly part of the universe in a different way.

Intangibly

So that means that Daddy lives in the natural world now. And at the moment there’s lots of flowers, and daddy probably has lots of them in the natural world too. But daddy gets sneezy when he’s around flowers, so I found one of his old dirty hankies in your box, so I’m going to turn that into dust so he has something to blow his nose with.

Oh, you are such a beautiful thing...

Mummy?

Do you know, if we burn it together I think it will turn to dust extra quick?

Better had. I don’t think I’ll be able turn all of the daisies into chains quick enough..

Just another day

I sit at my desk. Nothing happens! It’s all so dull, I am bored, I don’t want this, I don’t want that, but I want it all, it’s all such a mess. Confusion surrounds all my thoughts. I start writing. I stare at the wall for a second and it’s all gone. I think to myself “What am I even supposed to be doing?”. A glare back to the screen brings me back. I see the words, I remember. It worked. Key words are written on post-in notes. They constantly live around the edge of the screen. The purpose? Simple! They are cues to bring me back to the task at hand, keep me focused. This time they fulfilled their purpose; I carry on with my experimental writing. The words were flowing, the story line become clearer, the characters were starting to form, their unique personalities were forming, I was proud of my work. Out of a sudden my brain went “What have you done with the office keys? Random thought, never mind, let’s have cake, we’ll come back to work after that, we could use a break” “Ok then, you’re right, I really need to stretch my legs for a second”. That’s funny. It happens all the time. No fucking post-it notes, and colour coded words are going to get me out of this one, the ultimate distraction.

I go into the kitchen, open the fridge, get the last piece of carrot cake and poor a glass of cold milk. I look around the room and decide to sit on the blue, clear sky sofa in the corner. I have a bite of cake and stare out of the window. The mountain peaks are still covered with snow. I start daydreaming about the world outside the city. You know, the wild, animals, flowers, the green world. The place where you can run free, be who you want to be, even yourself. You find freedom, peace, serenity. You get to just be, simply exist. The wind passing through the evergreen trees, the murmur of water, the song of birds, what more would you want? You are surrounded by colour, as if you were in a live painting. The flowers are full of life, little working bees are frantically flying back and forth, they need to make ends meet, serve the queen bee. It is all so full of joy movement, music for your ears, life for a lost soul. It’s just wonderful. “Daydreaming needs to stop come back, we have more pressing issues”. I shake my head and I am back on the sofa, what a disappointment.

I stand up when I see a face mask stuck in the window corner. “Ohh right, that what brain meant by ‘pressing issues’”. It just does my heading. Ever since I moved here there was a problem with this kind of stuff. I keep complaining to the cleaning team but no success. They keep sending this bumbling window cleaner. Last time he left his dirty hanky hanging by the window frame.