What do you expect when you open the door in the morning? To see a familiar street, to see children racing up the pathways, dressed in school uniform. Sometimes you open it at the exact moment the postman is about to deliver your mail. In that instance it is common to regret wearing your baggiest tracksuit bottoms and a completely unflattering top. That is what I expected as I pulled the door towards me that morning. I did not expect this.

A mirror. Someone held up a mirror to scare me. Somehow they painted the slabs leading down the lawn on it. They found a way to superimpose the hedgerows which surround my garden on it, the large iron gate which keeps the world at bay. But its movements were not my own. It had my same chestnut-coloured hair, it curled in the same places just below the ears. It had my brown eyes, my annoyingly oversized upper-lip. It’s me. A better-dressed version of me.

“Don’t freak out,” it said, raising its hands. “I’m here to tell you something which you need to hear.”
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