sent from: Esher, Surrey, UK. destination: London, UK

Rocky Ronaldson was walking the dog early one morning. He was tired and thinking about work and hadn’t put in his contacts yet. When the lead pulled taut and he was dragged forward his cry of anger soon turned to fear when he realised his wife’s beloved terrier Pinky had fallen into The Gap, the occasional tear in the fabric of space. Its opening was as reliable and predictable as a Spanish shoe-shop. Rocky dug his heels into the pavement and braced himself against someone’s front gate, looking down the length of the lead as it disappeared into the gloaming and the blur of his poor vision until it disappeared over the lip of the Gap. He could fee the gentle swing as Pinky dangled from his harness, pendulum-steady.
Rocky leaned back and pulled, but Pinky didn’t budge. A minute passed, during which time he felt his arm begin to shake, and he wondered, briefly, if he might be better off just letting go and telling his wife a tearful tale of Pinky’s demise. As he considered this, his neighbour Erken Ermitage walked up to Rocky.
“Good morning,” he said. “Need some help?” Rocky paused. He didn’t want to owe his twitchy neighbour a favour, but he had little choice. He nodded, and together they pulled on the lead. Inch by inch they pulled until Pinky, scrabbling and panting, appeared above the lip of the Gap. Pinky appeared un-traumatised by the whole experience. In fact, he seemed to have a new spring in his step.
It was after they got home that Rocky’s wife wondered who had painted a perfect manicure onto Pinky’s nails.