“The boundary between living beings and inanimate objects isn’t absolute,” he said.

“Fark-off!”

“Look, Pip, I’m telling the truth. One day you could be breathing, the next one you could be slurping up the big ones like an extractor fan.”

I looked at him like a rotten avocado. “You’re off – off your head, mate, a freakin’ weirdo.”

“No, bro, seriously, … It’s true.”

“On whose authority?”

Dazza looked at me earnestly… “God’s.”

I rolled my eyes, felt my blood pressure rise. I would’ve laughed if I didn’t think he genuinely believed it. One of the springs lurking within the grotty sleep-out sofa jumped up and pinched my arse. To twin my discomfort, Dazza’s lips were now pinching and slobbering all over the joint he was sucking the joy out of.

“Feed the backs,” I said, reaching over, my knees knocking the formica coffee table, making the dreggy Tui soldiers standing to attention wobble, and the pāua ash tray stir.

Sunday was stoner day. It didn’t matter whether the sky was blue or grey, Dazza’s sleep-out was green as Kermit the frog and just as funny. The Sunday sesh, a pilgrimage often rolling into Monday, the time disappearing in a cloud of smoke and Mellow Puffs.

I half closed my eyes, drew a deep toke, dragging the guts out of it. I slowly exhaled, puffing smoke like a Darfield dragon.

“So, you’re telling me a person can go to heaven, then be sent back as a bucket or a spade?”

“Yeah, nah, I reckon. Only if you wanted, I guess.”

I giggled. “Fark-off. You’re full of shit.”

“Nah, Bro, dead-set.”

Silence fizzled between us as I tapped out the roach in the ashtray.

“So, what would you come back as?” I asked eventually.

Dazza looked at me, then grinned.

I jumped in before he could say something stupid. “Please don’t say a bra or a pair of women’s knickers, mate. That’s just sick. Be serious.”

“Chur, I wasn’t going to say that. Who do you think I am, man? Nah, I’ve always wanted to help people. So, I’d come back as an ambulance.

I roared with laughter, “Fark’n hell, you really are a weird bastard.”

I laughed so hard my arse jiggled and the spring bit me again like a crab at the beach. Then, I felt a searing sharp pain squeezing my skull, my eyes bulged, and I felt faint. My brain fumbled for thought as the lights in the sleepout went dim.

“So, Mr Smart-arse, what would you come back as then?” Dazza asked.

“No, no, not now…I always wanted to go to Wimbledon,” I muttered falteringly.

I woke to the sound of a roaring crowd. It was hot, and I felt flustered. I looked around, catching a glimpse of women dressed in summer frocks and hats, men in cream linen shirts and panama’s. There was a sweet smell in the air—perfume, cologne, competing with cucumber sandwiches, Pimm’s and strawberries. I smiled. I’d made it to Wimbledon after all.

“Quiet, please,” the umpire pressed to the crowd. A hushed silence fell over Centre Court.

Jasmine Paolini picked me up, looked down at me with a smile, then tucked me into the pocket inside her skirt. I felt her sweaty thigh, but liked being so close to her. I felt the tension in her muscles tighten. I felt her rise and then spring forward, her arm snapping through the air. Then I heard the crowd sigh.  

“Fault,” The umpire called.

She grabbed me unexpectedly and bounced me on my head four times.

“Ouch,” I cried, “What’d ya do that for?”

The next minute, she threw me high in the air. I was flying, in slow motion, the sun on my back, feeling amazing, my skin bristling with joy. Then, as I fell, she smacked me with her racket so hard and fast it made my insides squirm and steal my breath away.

“What the fark?”