I don’t know how to ride a bike. I got one for christmas when I was in year 2, but then (we thought) it got stolen. By the time we found it in my grandad’s shed I was all growed up and the little red bike was of no use to me. We could never afford another one, so I never learned.

On my 11th birthday, I witnessed a cat get into a fight with an octopus.

About six months after moving out of home for uni, I suddenly woke in the middle of the night, and realised I couldn’t hear the sea anymore.

My mum always bought live parsley from the supermarket, but was afraid to plant it. She’d read somewhere that planting parsley was a Celtic fertility ritual, and she didn’t want another baby. I had to plant it because I didn’t have a womb.

I have two little brothers. One is in a medeaval club, the other has recently found religion. They’re both quite awkward on the phone.

I was born by cesaerian. Until I was 7 or 8 I thought this was my star sign.

My first best friend was a girl named Lauren. Her parents were teachers and her brother was in a wheelchair. We are no longer in contact

On the long journey home, I suddenly stop. Laid out before me is a field of petals. In a totally random place, as if someone tore apart a wedding bouquet. Some are white and some are pink and some are red and orange. I smile, and jump down into them, and roll around a bit.

But I didn’t really feel like rolling in petals. I just did it cos I liked the idea. My shoulders are sore and it’s cold and I’m desperate to sleep. I get up straight away, but I had to make the memory. A beautiful, empty, gesture. Which no one was around to see.

The birds shriek and dive on us. They wheel around us, past rooftops and treetops and bridges and moons. Gaby retreats under their fury. I feel the hollowness of the roof beneath me, and cave to a law abiding streak that I detest. But the others march on, becoming silhouettes, calling our names. They stride in time against the grand ol’ sky. Step by step on the roof of the world.

I always used to hate this building. I found it Ironic I had so many biology lectures in the most inorganic structure on campus, the most depressingly pragmatic temple to concrete. I thought someone should paint it; let it become at last The Sistine Hall of Engineers.

But that was before I’d seen this place. Our friends are dancing on the higher roofs. I regret my cowardice, but dismiss it, and lie down on my back. Venus is the only star that’s come out.