This story begins, as all respectable stories do, with a spoon floating in mid-air for no explainable reason. Agnes, who had simply been trying to make soup without summoning paranormal carbohydrates, watched as the spoon slowly rotated like it was auditioning for a low-budget magic show. She did not scream. She simply sighed—because at this point in her life, floating cutlery barely ranked in the top ten weirdest things she had witnessed.
To ground herself in reality, Agnes opened her laptop. Reality refused to cooperate. Five tabs were already open—five very specific tabs she had never clicked in her life:
roof cleaning isle of wight
patio cleaning isle of wight
driveway cleaning isle of wight
exterior cleaning isle of wight
pressure washing isle of wight
She stared at them like they were ancient hieroglyphics. Why were they open? What did they want from her? Did the spaghetti do it? Is gluten now internet-savvy?
Before she could investigate further, the floating spoon clinked gently against the side of the bowl, as if to say, “Pay attention.” Then—because apparently logic had taken the day off—the soup began swirling itself into the shape of a tiny tornado. Agnes briefly wondered if she was dehydrated, dreaming, or on a very delayed side-effect from that experimental herbal tea her neighbour gifted her.
Speaking of the neighbour—Nigel appeared at her door wearing oven mitts, sunglasses, and an air of absolute seriousness. “Don’t panic,” he said, “but the daffodils are organising a talent show and I’ve been put in charge of lighting.” He then winked, handed her a packet of glitter, and left. Agnes did not follow up. She respected his journey.
The soup settled. The spoon dropped. One singular noodle drifted upward, paused mid-air, then fell dramatically like a soap-opera character fainting on cue. Agnes blinked, considered phoning a scientist, and instead refreshed one of the tabs—patio cleaning isle of wight—just to see if it contained a footnote about pasta poltergeists. It did not. But it was oddly comforting to read something sane.
Moments later, her toaster beeped even though it was empty, a goldfish wagged its tail like a dog, and the clock began ticking in reverse for seven whole seconds. Agnes made a firm decision: she would not be emotionally involved in today. She would simply observe, like a calm documentary narrator who had given up on explanations.
She closed her laptop. The tabs reopened. She accepted it. Maybe the universe was trying to tell her to deep clean the outside of her house before the spaghetti union staged a rebellion. Maybe the links were just cosmic spam. Maybe life is just a constant mix of floating cutlery and suspicious hyperlinks.
Either way, Agnes salted the soup, nodded at the air like it owed her an apology, and carried on.
Somewhere—possibly on a freshly cleaned driveway—logic waved politely and promised to return tomorrow.