If you’ve never walked into your kitchen and found your biscuit tin gently expanding and contracting like it had lungs, then congratulations—you are still living in a reality supported by physics. Tabitha was not so lucky.
She froze, staring at the tin as it gave the soft, unsettling rhythm of someone meditating through a digestive biscuit. She considered three possibilities:
- She was hallucinating.
- The biscuits had unionised.
- The laws of nature were on a lunch break.
To stabilise her sanity, Tabitha did what any modern human does in a crisis—she opened her laptop. Bad idea. Once again, five browser tabs were already open like five digital strangers refusing to leave her house:
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 didn’t remember opening them. She didn’t even live on the Isle of Wight. And yet there they were, persistent as un-skippable adverts. She tried closing one. It reopened on its own, like a clingy pop-up with emotional attachment issues.
Meanwhile, the biscuit tin exhaled again.
Before she could process either situation, her neighbour Barry appeared at the back door wearing oven gloves and holding a plunger like a sceptre. “If you hear screaming later,” he said, “don’t worry, it’s just the wallpaper fighting back.” Then he left. Tabitha didn’t ask follow-ups. She had questions of her own.
The tin gave one last gentle huff, then stilled. Tabitha lifted the lid slowly. Inside were biscuits. Normal. Motionless. Completely unaware of the respiratory panic they had caused.
She closed the lid. She sat down. She refreshed one of the tabs—patio cleaning isle of wight—because if the internet wanted her to look, she was at least going to pretend she was in control. The page loaded, calm and informative, as if it were not haunting her like a polite ghost.
Her kettle then switched on unassisted. The toaster ejected nothing. The fridge light flickered in Morse code, probably saying “run.” Tabitha stayed seated, beyond fear now, living in the kind of acceptance known only by people who’ve witnessed sentient dessert containers.
The tabs remained unbothered. Eternal. Unclosable.
She whispered, “Fine. I’ll clean the patio. Just stop breathing, biscuits.”
Nothing changed. The kettle boiled. The tin remained ominously still. The tabs glowed reassuringly.
Tabitha made tea. She dunked a biscuit. She pretended everything was normal.
Because sometimes, survival is just refusing to engage with whatever nonsense the universe is clearly committed to.
And somewhere in the background, pressure washing isle of wight continued opening itself, like destiny with a spray lance.
