Your Adventures In Philosophy Town

Catception

You wake up lying on firm sand, feeling like a prawn cooked in its shell.

    ‘Urgh,’ you slur, squinting. What time is it? How long have you been asleep? When did this even happen?

    ‘Come on Eureka,’ You mumble, hastily getting onto your feet. Ohh, head rush... ‘Let’s find some shade - Eureka?’

    You frown, which hurts your sunburnt face even more. You may have only had the kitten for about a day, but you were just becoming good companions. The idea that you may never see the little ball of fluff again is kind of heartbreaking.

   Except then the world rights itself, albeit in the kookiest way possible: Eureka comes bobbing towards you on the small crests of salty blue waves, in a paper boat. You’re quite sure such a flimsy contraption shouldn’t physically be able to do that, but then again, you have been throwing your disbelief to the side every hour since arriving in Philosophy Town.

  Soon enough your furry companion has safely made it to the shore and, to your complete jaw-dropping astonishment, hops off the paper boat, takes it up between its thumbless paws, does some quick re-folding, and places it on its head as a hat. You have neither words nor gestures.

    ‘…Ok then. As I was saying, shade. And water. And something to eat.’

   You manage to find all of these things available in one convenient location: the Arkadan Bean, this time minus the shouty Vienna Circle. The manager lets you splash your face with water, partially relieving all the sun you’ve caught. Then, while Eureka is allowed to feast on some tuna, you are treated to a ‘Continental Philosophy Breakfast’. The options are like nothing you’ve ever conceived of:

   ‘Would you like your eggs absolute, or deconstructed? Raymond Bellio-Tea or John M. Copper-ffee? Some Francis Bacon, or perhaps you’d prefer some Jeremy Bent-Ham?’

  Oh, the puns. You respond in the most British way possible by saying that you don’t mind.

  It’s really quite good, although the wheels turning in your brain keep distracting you from fully enjoying the meal: surely it’s been long enough now. Today, you resolve to get home, back to your own universe, however many other parallel universes you may have to bounce over to get there.

   Optimistically, if there’s no time difference, it should still be Sunday back in York. Returning before the evening would be ideal - you promised your flat you’d go to Vodka Revs with them, after all.

   You thank the manager for breakfast, and pay with another Unanswerable Question: ‘How many atoms are there in the universe?’ Her grin tells you this must be the equivalent of giving someone a huge tip.

   Outside the café, you stand in the street and look around. There aren’t exactly bus stops lining the pavements, and even if you could find one, it would probably only take you to destinations that were still in this universe.

   For want of a better idea, you give the Dorothy Trick a go: tap your shoes at the heel three times, and say, ‘Take me Home.’

    …

   You take a moment to laugh at yourself for thinking that would actually work, and then start inwardly despairing because what if you never get back to uni and never finish you degree and never find out how Doctor Who ends and -

    ‘Are you alright there?’

   On the verge of squeaky tears, you turn around, Eureka on your shoulder (and still wearing the hat) to face a middle-aged woman kneeling in the front garden of a small yellow house. She’s planting bulbs and cutting blades of grass with shears.