Tomorrow I have a story in Flashshot, a magazine of very short genre fiction. Please consider subscribing (it's free) if you like that sort of thing.
1. The greeter in the job centre asks me for my National Insurance number (I'm on his list under my first name, which is not Clare). I freeze. I have no memory for alphanumeric strings. But the little voice prompts me with the first two letters, and it comes tumbling out of my mouth.
2. Nick's best man brings us two black umbrellas for the wedding day. They are furled smart and tight as beech buds, and I can't wait for the day they open (if they need to!).
3. I always like a phone call from PaulV, particularly if I'm having an evening in by myself.
Picture illustrating that I am not a number from Stock.xchng.