The note was left on my auto windshield one night, dark purple ink on light purple paper. It guaranteed I’d find a magic potion miles away, in the mirrored-type exotic refrigerator of a flat I already knew. Away I went, making sure to drive the correct path on so many Essex roads ripped with snow. Of course the ice didn’t help. Whoops. Finally arriving outside the flat I parked in a spot with a silly power drift overhead, getting drenched on the auto’s right side with batters of brilliant snow, too many flakes to count. Out I went and up some stairs, tasty snow swishing around like a holiday globe in a Piccadilly department store. When I entered the flat, a crazy-stoic yellow-white fire was shaking wild in a horizontal living room hearth, possibly prepared moments before me. Loved the shadows. To the refrigerator! And mirrors. I open the door and there it is: a purple bottle, fantastically clear and iridescent. Looks like a mini version of the genie bottle from an old US television show. Intriguing. I grab it and find it unnaturally cold for such a fancy fridge. So then I take a seat in front of the symphony fire. Spinning lights and peace. Right, so what’s this antiquated, millennial facet purple, pink-edged, outré-cool bottle, eh? No markings, labels, no indication of origin. Okay, let’s pull the plug. Bang! Bit like champagne. Bollinger? Doubtful. I take a whiff. Sparkly. Like sand from a distant empire, blowing across the blue blue Atlantic. Cheers. I drink a shot, maybe two. Hm. Damned flavourful. A rainbow cavern far underground in a pour of adventure and wit with a fun splash of echo. And no alcohol! But seconds later, a door crossing ekpyrotic theory and grandeur opens wide. Mentally. Amazing! I see things, knowledge and wisdom from a far away place I’ve never been.

I go from mortal cascades of genetic Homo sapiens DNA, to a canister of titan libraries knowing much. Cycloramic land of educational cartography covering galaxies and lots of good pizza. All in tiny seconds. Wow. But wait! There’s more: Vision of empty cities and rural streets day and afternoon, volcanic plains crossed to prime jungles of mahogany and birch. Whew! After all this I close the bottle and return to the fridge. Back the purple delight goes. Myself? 100% normal now, with scintillating sly edge. I leave the flat, heading quite crispy for a Margherita pizza in Islington. Why not? After all, one might suppose I just took a stroll through haunted stars with a hyper-music purple-pink female deity, yes?