We are down to the shittiest Quality Street,
the ones that nobody loves, sad orphans
lost in the cracks between jurisdictions.
'Jelly Babies used to be called Unclaimed Babies,'
I say, brushing pie crumbs from my jumpered gut,
but Carla isn't listening. 'What's wrong?
Do you need more trivia?'
Like a mesmerist, she is touching fingertips to temples,
watching her reflection in a magenta bauble.
'Something's off,' she tells me. 'I feel like
we're in some offshoot reality, like all of this,'
she gestures broadly at the tinsel, the muted plasma screen,
the meteors and burning wasteland outside,
'should not exist.' I shake my head and smile and slide
a fig across the coffee table
with one slippered toe.