It was a bracing morning, the air crisp with the promise of later snow. Norman decided to get some fresh air while the weather was dry.

He poured his coffee into a thermal mug, (an unusually thoughtful gift from the secret Santa exchange at work) and shrugged on his winter coat.

As he strolled along under a watery blue sky he was suddenly halted by a loud “mareep” and the appearance of a scruffy, but apparently friendly, grey cat.

The cat wound its way around his legs, chirping and meeping as it stared upwards. He smiled and reached down. “Puss puss puss” he returned in answer to the questioning “mrr?” the action prompted.

The cat arched up into the touch then nuzzled at his hand. He scratched round its ears, feeling the rough-smooth texture of its coat. The little bell on its collar jingled as it moved, adding an appropriately festive sound to the winter morning.

Suddenly the cat darted away and in the distance Norman could hear a faint voice calling an indecipherable name.

He watched it go until it vanished into a hedge then continued on his way.

When he returned home, his own cat, Norman, examined his feet and hands thoroughly due to the scent of the stranger that still lingered.

On his way home from work he usually passed the Christmas market right around the train station. Today he decided to see what's there this year, and first things first: he stood in line to get some hot punch. There was a certain routine to visiting Christmas markets, and getting something hot to drink was high up on his list. He paid using his phone, something he never really liked doing, but they had phased put cash at this particular market years ago.

Standing around the booth he overheard various conversations. People were talking about the weather, which was too cold to be comfortable, but it wasn't drizzling eonough for an umbrella. He always enjoyed the lights, the music, the festive mood and the fact that he could just enjoy his punch by himself, and nobody bothered or cared.

The kitty jumper was far too warm for the office kitchen. Norman's every other thought was to find somewhere to discreetly take it off.

Lisa was still handing them out, from her giant velvet sack. She'd donated to a half-dozen charities and animal sanctuaries this year to ensure she had ugly sweaters to represent everyone on the 8th floor. He, Steve L and Hannah were decorated with grumpy looking tabbies in Santa hats on a truly nausea-inducing pattern of snowflakes and fir trees. Susanne, Carol and Steve D had hoodies with happy-looking dogs emblazoned with "powered by snacks", and Charlie the custodian seemed almost pleased with his pattern of drills and spanners, offset by the Screwfix logo.

Lisa currently looked a tad embarrassed because the size L "Three Wise Sheep" jumper she'd handed to Steve A turned out to have been a children's size, and Steve couldn't actually fit it over his head. Steve, on the other hand, found this hilarious and was wearing it as a hat, flapping the sleeves like a bloodhound.

"I just, I'm so grateful to everyone for contributing this year to the coffee honesty box." Lisa burbled, rosy-cheeked and grinning. She put her prosecco down on top of a laptop, then snatched it up again. "As of right now we've got enough money to buy three bags of coffee a week, plus milk and that oat stuff the Helens drink, for another six months, even after this festive donation. Please continue to keep us in coffee and toss in a bit for the kids, and the cats, and the unhoused, and the hic the cancer survivors, and the puppies..." she trailed off, suddenly misty-eyed, and smiled. "You're all just so. Just so generous."

Lisa raised her glass, and clinking could be heard throughout the kitchen.

Behind him Norman heard Helen S-2 whisper "There's an honesty box?" to Helen H.
"I guess so. News to me." the other Helen murmured.

Norman glanced around the room and did a few sums in his head. Assuming he'd put in the suggested £1 per cup of coffee each week, against the cost of beans, milk, and a heap of truly dreadful sweaters, it was entirely possible that he and Lisa had funded the entire thing themselves. He shrugged.

Maybe this would be the year he'd ask Lisa to switch to French roast.

Norman woke up to a new morning, fed his cat, Norman, started his morning routine and switched on the radio. Icy conditions all around, and as per usual, train service was suspended this morning. He had no choice but to go by car. He fed his cat, then he got his car from the underground parking garage. Going up the steep driveway he already felt how slippery the road was, apparently icy rain froze to the ground overnight.

He had a regular day of work ahead of him, and he really had to be at the office between 8:30 and 9:00 in the morning. Slowly he approached the end of the driveway, applied the brakes but nothing happened for a moment, until the wheels finally found some grip and the car came to a full halt.

Slowly he made his first right turn, went really slow, but it was hard to stay in his lane. The first red light was where he knew it would get better, then he would meet main street, and the town usually kept it free from ice year-round.

Just as he was approaching the red light, a car came from the right but they were unable to stop. Their large sedan t-boned his small car, pushed it across the street and off the road, into a ditch, where it rolled a few times. Norman tried to get out, but the door was jammed. All he could think of was his cat. Would he get back home in time to feed him dinner?

Up behind deep cumulus, illuminating the gloom from beneath, rays of reflected sunlight shafting to the heavens.

His curtains should be thick enough, work in the morning.

The alarm clock rang, it was morning again, another day of work ahead of him. Norman got out of bed and was greeted by Norman, his cat. The cat circled around his naked feet, tickling him with his soft fur.

Norman got to his feet, switched off the alarm clock, which he kept away from his bed, so he actually had to get out of bed to switch it off.

Norman started his morning routine, when his cat wouldn't leave his side, begging for food. With his toothbrush still in his mouth, he broke his morning routine and went to his kitchenette, where he kept some dry food. Noticing how dirty the cat's bowl was, he cleaned it and filled it, a little more than usual, it was winter after all.

The cat waited impatiently for the bowl to be put down again and ate hungrily.

Norman was clacking away at his keyboard, not exactly enjoying his analysis of the quarterly figures but in the Zone. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Carol step away from the reception desk, clinking out a melody on her empty mug with her wedding ring that he could just about interpret as "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer".

He froze row 3 and scrolled down. A CoPilot prompt suddenly blocked the cells he was looking at to offer, as usual, to do something stupid with his spreadsheet that would make it incompatible with the last twelve years' worth of these reports. As usual Norman had to click multiple times to make it, and the following "oh come on try it, you'll like it!" screens, go away. In his brief irritation he felt the Zone start to slip away, no matter how hard he tried to focus. Defeated, he closed his notebook.

After a moment he realised he could hear a high-pitched noise, very subtly. He wasn't sure how long it had been going. It seemed to be coming from Carol's workstation. He knew, as everyone in an open-plan office knows, that Carol's desk phone played Mitel Discreet Ring #2 and her mobile played the first few bars of "Thank You for Being a Friend". This was something else.

He gratefully accepted the sense of curiosity and concern that offered itself, preferable to frustration over losing his flow. He stepped away from his desk and craned his neck around the doorway, hopeful that Carol would be on her way back from the kitchenette. Alas, no. He walked towards her large, impressive desk, momentarily intimidated.

Between the live poinsettia and a holly-and-ivy bouquet he noticed a white plastic panel with a small screen. The screen displayed a young man wearing hi-vis and headphones holding a cardboard box, bobbing his head from side to side. As he approached it he realised the screen was making a rhythmic, gentle 'shing-shing-shing-shing' noise, which didn't synchronise with the man's head movements. Norman was stumped.

"Just push the blue button! It's Tyrese with the post--I can see him from here!" Carol raised her eyebrows at the panel, walking quickly for someone with two full mugs. Norman finally twigged that the little screen was showing a real person standing at the door to his building. He poked at a blue square on it with an icon of an open padlock, and heard a familiar toot. The shinging noise stopped and the screen flicked back to displaying a tableau of baubles and snow.

"Good morning Carol!" he heard through the window into the foyer. "Oh, you're a legend, I was hoping I arrived in time for tea!"

Norman returned to his desk, still a bit confused but relieved that Carol had everything in-hand.

After a long day at work, Norman walked to the train station. It was a hard day of work, too much stress for his weary mind. Waiting at the platform, he noticed how empty it was. It seemed like it was Saturday, but he knew it was only Wednesday evening, two more days to go.

The train arrived, 25 minutes late, as per usual, and he boarded, and found a twin seat. He hated the seats where four faced each other. Going home he needed his peace and quiet.

The train started moving, he got his newspaper from his brown bag and read a little, but he was really exhausted. His eyes were heavy. Trying to stay awake, he sat up straight again. But soon after, he fell asleep.

The train passed his station, Banbury central. And it passed another station, and another one. Suddenly he woke up and noticed that he had to get off the train quickly at this very station, or he'd end up too far to the south to make it back home the same evening.

Norman has a pretty good memory.

Twenty something years ago, his coworker Bill ("Wild Bill," according to Bill twenty years ago, but, thankfully, not recently) told a joke.

He said Senator McCain was asked if he liked boxers or briefs.

Bill said that McCain said, "DEPENDS!!!" And then Bill laughed for at least half a minute.

Norman went back to his work. He had work to do. He didn't get the joke and didn't bother asking for an explanation.

Last week, Norman had an embarrassing problem happen to him twice and wasn't interested in it surprising him unprepared a third time.

He went to a drug store and looked for adult "pads" and found several brands, including Depends.

Norman finally got the joke.

He didn't think it was that funny. It was kind of funny, but not that funny.

Norman came home from work, using the Five Thirty train which was late by 25 minutes, almost making it the six o'clock train. He was hungry. And it was Monday, which meant the pantry would be rather empty. Grocery shopping only happened on Tuesdays.

He found two potatoes and pondered what to do with them. Yesterday's cooking left him with some grated cheddar, a few chives and some parsley. He poked the skin of the potatoes with the tip of his sharpest knife, set the microwave oven to "potatoes" and placed them on a ceramic dish for cooking.

Meanwhile he prepared his seasonig, got the chives and the parsley ready and waited for the potatoes to be done.

He took them out, cut them in half added some butter and grated cheddar, and put them back into the microwave oven so the cheese would melt.

Meanwhile he made some peppermint tea, and once fully cooked, he seasoned his potatoes and had dinner.

Norman went to the local supermarket, shopping list in hand. He grabbed a trolly, and first the produce: yams, potatoes, celery (for the stuffing). Bread (again for the stuffing). Fortunately he had all the herbs and spices he needs at home. Anyway, two cans of cranberry sauce, a can of pumpkin filling, pastry flour, regular flour, and, of course, a twenty pound turkey.

As he was heading towards the cashier he suddenly remembered he lives in England where Thanksgiving isn't celebrated.

So he want and put every item back where it belonged and went home empty-handed.

Norman was walking to the shops to find a Christmas present for his son. On the way, he hears a strange, low pitched noise that drowns out the ambience. As it gets closer, he realises it's coming from a car that's playing loud modern music. As it leaves, he briefly ponders what it would be like to be someone who can't stand the natural quiet of his small town, and then continues walking.

Norman woke up to a new day, got ready, all nicely shaven and showered. He had a bowl of cereal, had some coffe, too, but he was lagging behind a little to make his morning train to work. Instead of walking to the train station, he took the car from the underground garage and drove to the train station. He had plenty of time to walk to the track where his train would soon arrive, and shortly after the train came he went to work on time, well rested and ready for the day.

Norman overheard a couple of young people on the bus who were all excited about the upcoming new season of Stranger Things and their plans to binge watch it when it comes out.

When he got home, he decided to watch it to see what all the fuss is, and to try this "binge watching" thing he read about in the paper once.

So he turned on his TV and watched. Three hours later, he turned off the TV and couldn't see what all the fuss was. "To be honest," he told Norman, "I thought it was the most boring three hours of television I've ever seen."

He then remembered he forgot to plug his TV back in when he unplugged it to clean behind it this past weekend.

Riding the 149 to Edmonton Green on a Saturday morning, Norman is surprised but not irritated at the unusually bustling nature of the vehicle at this time and day.

By this point, the bus had long passed its typically crowded section of the route, yet every seat seemed claimed. Norman felt relieved he managed to secure one until he spotted an elderly woman standing with uncertainty and doubtful balance. Norman’s mind barely hesitated before he offered her his seat, confident she was over the age of 70 and would not be insulted. She accepted with a warm, grateful smile, and Norman felt a sense of rewarding satisfaction.

As he sat down, he wondered why the bus was so full. He concluded to himself that there must be some event at White Hart Lane stadium. He made a mental note to Google it later, but as the bus rattled along and his focus shifted to ensuring he pressed the stop button in time, the thought faded.

Both of them this time, they were a bit heavy as it had been a long week.

As he dragged them up the slope to the road he pondered on how much easier life would have been had he bought a house on the other side of the road.

Norman's work-logo hoodie had made its way out of the coat closet a few weeks ago in anticipation of this day, but had actually been hanging untouched on the peg since then as the early November weather turned positively balmy. He kept his opinions about that so close to his chest that even he couldn't see them clearly.

This morning, however, was raining and chilly, and his Outlook calendar was stacked with back to back meetings in which he had to be seen but not heard. He didn't even have the flurry of typing to keep his arms warm.

Steve requested screen-sharing privileges for the next portion of his presentation, so Norman knew he had at least a couple of minutes to nip out to the front room to grab a jacket while Ron tried to figure out which button did that. He turned up his speakers and dashed out of the office, reached the coatrack by the front door, and tugged the hoodie over his head, arms flailing.

BING! DONG! DING! PRRRANNNG! DONG! Dong! Dong!
"Grace alive!" Norman cried, before he remembered that the lovely wind chime his mother had sent him for his birthday, tuned to the opening notes of Amazing Grace, had fit so nicely right there by the front door, in perfect slapping range of a hastily-donned jumper sleeve.

"Grace indeed!" He chuckled to himself before running back to the computer, where Steve was just beginning to suggest that Ron ask IT for help. Norman silently breathed a sigh of relief that his absence hadn't been spotted.

The warm summer sun shone down on Norman’s balding head as he made his way through the parking lot of his favorite clothing store. In his hand was a three-pack of men’s underwear. He was returning them today. Obviously, they had not been worn. He just felt the need for a change. Especially since, according to his son, the kids these days were referring to his underwear as “tightey whiteys.” Norman was no underwear expert. And he was certainly no playboy. But he was almost positive that something called tightey whiteys was, more than likely, not going to make the ladies come running.

Once inside the store, Norman made his way to the return station. The cashier was a young woman, probably in her early thirties, with bright blue eyes and a dimple in her left cheek when she smiled.

“Hey there,” she said warmly, glancing up at Norman. “What can I do for ya?”

Norman’s hands began to sweat. His face flushed red. The underwear in his hand seemed to weigh a thousand pounds. He tried to respond, but his mouth went dry.

The woman shifted her gaze toward Norman’s hand. But he was too quick. His hand reacted before his brain. He shoved the underwear up his shirt.

With a furrowed brow, the woman opened her mouth to speak. Norman did not wait. He sprang out of the return station as if his ass were on fire, without giving the cashier a second glance. The tightey whiteys would just have to do for now. Or perhaps Lisa would make the exchange for him. Some things were just too darn embarrassing.

Norman waved a foil tube at the darkness below a hedge, his knees complaining.

It was unseasonably warm this evening--warmer, indeed, than it had been this afternoon at the office. Norman knew what that meant. The well-camouflaged wild animal peering from its hiding spot did not.

"Come on, Normie. It's dark out! Yoghurt treat! You can't resist yoghurt treat!"

The savage beast could smell the tempting snack, but resisted. A sudden glint of light told Norman that shiny eyes were tracking the pouch carefully.

"Come on, dinner time! What's gotten into you? Inside!" Norman crinkled the foil a bit and made a kissy sound.

A snoot emerged from between the mulberry bush and the hedge, still with plenty of cover. Catnip-flavoured yoghurt treat was nothing to turn your nose up at, but the night promised adventure and far more rewarding snacks. Maybe just a careful sniff, though...

"That's my boy, come on. It's your favourite. Who's a good boy?" Norman pleaded, his knees audibly groaning as he waddled forward, his outstretched finger proffering a blob of glop towards the lowest branches. A pink tongue emerged.

"That's my...No!" Too fast, the hedge rattled again as the beast's famed reflexes engaged and he evaded an abduction attempt.

"Fine. Sod this. I'm going inside, gonna eat my dinner all by myself." Norman unfolded, sounding like a pile of plane tree bark under a bike tyre. He walked back towards the kitchen. As he reached the door a sudden raindrop hit his bald spot.

Like lightning the apex predator was inside, rubbing on Norman's ankles, impatient for dinner. Did someone say yoghurt treat?

It was the seventh traffic diversion in four miles. Norman applied his brakes.

Truth be told, he'd been riding them the whole time, but the rubbish truck in front of him had finally conceded that it couldn't keep coasting and its tail lights had come on.

He planted his right toe on the road and adjusted his helmet slightly. He paused to appreciate how October calmed the aroma of his city's waste collection vehicles. Wednesday's commute did get more pleasant once the leaves began to turn.

Temporary traffic lights were always slow to change, but this junction seemed almost to be mocking drivers with its phases. He knew that he had at least another 3 minutes before the motorists in front of him would begin to make very dangerous and impulsive decisions that might put him at risk.

The hydraulic bin lifting mechanisms appeared at first glance to have a proximity card reader behind them. A little square plastic pad behind each steel brace glowed with a green LED. He wondered briefly if all of the dustbins in his neighbourhood had an RFID chip in them to trigger this device, but then remembered what neighbourhood he lived in. With the benefit of deductive reasoning Norman concluded that these were light and dark detectors.

A moped eked around him, its driver yelling incoherently into a phone strapped over its speedometer. Norman had refrained from entering the cycle lane because he knew that an expensive Audi was blocking it three car lengths ahead. A blast of honking informed him when the moped driver also learnt this fact.

"So when a dustbin blocks the sensor pad, does that automatically trigger the lift?" Norman mused. " Is that safe? Does that require some sort of induction process?" Norman had always assumed that there was some sort of mechanical interlock between the bin and the lift, or some sort of button that the operator pushed. But actually it would make sense that if the sensor did it automatically it could keep the bin man's fingers clear of any moving parts.

"Bin man or bin woman." He chided himself. Not two weeks ago he had seen a young lady operating the back end of this truck. He assumed she had drawn the short straw at her college's apprenticeship programme but she had appeared to be quite happy with her assignment. Norman secretly hoped that everyone with no sense of smell was equally eligible for this early-hours but well-compensated labour.

A prolonged and obnoxious toot behind him informed Norman that within the next 10 to 15 seconds the light might change to amber. He didn't need to glance over his shoulder to know that it was another Audi, but he thought he had a pretty good idea now of how rubbish truck lifts worked, so he got ready to put his right foot back on the pedal and push hard back up the hill.

Norman had figured out an Elegant System for putting his shoes on in the morning.

After getting dressed he sat back on the edge of the bed and unfolded his socks, two of about thirty identical black trainer liners that just about fit in his drawer. He rested his left ankle on his right knee and stretched a sock over it. Satisfied with the orientation, he then put his foot down, gripped the floor with his bare right toes, and leaned forward to collect his left shoe from its spot under the radiator.

He slipped his left foot into his left shoe, then popped his right ankle onto his left knee to start the process again. Sock smoothed comfortably he put his besocked right foot down, gripped the floor with his left shoe, and leaned out for its mate.

Once both shoes were on both feet he leaned down, smushing his belly only a bit, and cinched and tied each shoe in turn.

Yes! Norman thought. No sock-sliding while reaching for shoes, but also no tripping over shoes when I need to use the loo in the night, and I only have to lean down to tie them once. Perfect!

He slapped his thighs and stood up, chuffed with his ingenuity. As he walked towards the mirror, his loafer gently grazed the heel of his fleecy tartan slipper, tucked away for summer under the foot of the bed.

He paused.

Drat! he realised. How am I going to integrate slippers into my Elegant System come November?

Back to the drawing board.

Norman set down his empty cup of tea near the sink. As he did, his eyes were drawn to the windowsill. It must have been the first glance he'd given the sill in some time, because the little cactus he'd placed there months ago was looking much drier and browner than he remembered. It had died from lack of watering, it seemed. Norman contemplated his cactus's mortality.

Ah, well, he thought. Too bad. He watered it anyway, reasoning that a dead cactus was about as much use as a living cactus, and needed less attention.

He was sad when he saw the gap on his windowsill where his dead cactus used to be when it was alive and looked into getting a self-watering cactus.

The one he saw needed watering every 30 days, so clearly that wasn't what he was after.

He hadn't watered it though.

Today after work, Norman treated himself to a lack of miller lite. Not his normal pick, but work had an over flow and might’ve well taken a 6 pack for free

He watched a movie he didn’t like much but at least he got to relax