Ding dong.

Agnes opens the door. There are two smartly-dressed men on her doorstep. They both look young, wholesome and healthy. One of them carries a clipboard. The other wears trendy, heavy-framed glasses. This is really the only way of telling them apart.

Hello, says Agnes.

Hello, yes, says the smart young man with the glasses. This is just a courtesy call really. We’re in the area organising a witch hunt.

Is that right, says Agnes. How exciting.

Yes, continues the man, you might have noticed in recent times that petrol prices have gone through the roof, the property market is in decline, there was a three headed calf born in the next village along and you remember those little, individually wrapped chocolates… um…

Neapolitans, interjects clipboard-man. They were great, like tiny chocolate bars, all different flavours?

I remember those, says Agnes.

Yeah, well, you can’t get them any more, says glasses. Why? Nobody really knows.

Nobody, says clipboard.

Oh dear, says Agnes.

But we suspect witchcraft, says glasses, and he smiles a winning, Arctic-white-toothed smile.

Oh dear, says Agnes.

So we’re hunting witches, says glasses and his smile disappears quicker than the Arctic ice shelf. And we have a couple of questions for you, if that’s OK. Um, firstly, are you a witch?

No, says Agnes.

You are an old lady though, says clipboard.

Yes I am, she confirms.

Clipboard writes something on his clipboard. Is an old lady, he mutters.

Excellent, says glasses. And do you have a supernumerary nipple with which you suckle your demonic familiar?

No, says Agnes.

The men look at each other.

Tell you what, says clipboard, I’m going to put down “yes”.

Because if he doesn’t, they might not let us burn you, says glasses, helpfully, and he smiles his charming smile once more.

And to be honest, everybody’s saying no to that one, says clipboard. It’s doing my head in.

We’ve got a quota, says glasses.

Burn me? queries Agnes.

Oh yeah, says clipboard, have to check: are you flammable, yes or no? His pen hovers above the clipboard. Yes? No?

No, says Agnes.

Clipboard has a think.

Yeah, I’m going to put “yes” again, if that’s OK.

Well, er, clipboard peers at his clipboard, Agnes, it looks like you’re probably a witch We can’t be a hundred per cent sure, but better safe than sorry, eh? Think about the children. So if you’d like to pop down to the town centre, just outside Somerfield at around lunchtime on Sunday we’ll get you burned.

Agnes sighs. If I must, I suppose I must.

Lovely, says glasses. We’ll see you there.

The men stare at Agnes for a while. Agnes stares back. It is all rather awkward.

Was there anything else, asks Agnes, eventually.

What do you think, asks glasses.

Oh right, says Agnes, and she disappears back indoors for a minute. She returns with a box of Terry’s Neapolitan chocolates.

The men are delighted. They pick a chocolate each.

Ah, cafe au lait. Brilliant, says clipboard.

See you on Sunday you despicable old crone, says glasses, unwrapping a tiny mint chocolate bar.

They set off down the path and away, leaving Agnes to ponder the error of her evil wiccan ways.

******
Witch Hunt by Harris
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“I’m no scientist, right, but I believe E=mc means that if you go faster than light then you can travel back in time.

“So say you want to go visit your Gran’pa Benson, who lives in The Olden Days.

“You get a bus and an infinite amount of fuel. So far so easy. You start the bus and work slowly up the gears until you’ve ramped that baby up to light speed.

“If you want to check whether you are going at light speed, pop the headlight on. If it’s still dark out front, but you can see the headlights shining in your rear view mirror, you are.

“But according to Einstein’s special theory of relativity equation, mass will increase as an object goes faster. This means the faster you go, the fatter you get, and light speed is, by definition, awful fast.

“You hit light speed, and start to travel back in time to The Olden Days. But oh no! By the time you reach your destination you will be too fat to get off the bus. In fact, science says you will be infinitely fat, so even if you sit there a couple of days and don’t snack at all you will still be proper portly, and bus doors are not infinitely big. So you can’t get off and say “hi” to gramps. Wasted trip.

“Also, if Gran’pa Benson sees you wedged in the bus like a giant sweaty marshmallow, and instinctively recognises you as the eventual fruit of his loins, he will decide never to have sex again because nobody wants a chubby grandkid. That’s true, by the way. If you’re overweight, your grandparents are disappointed in you. Their smiles are fake and you have ruined their lives.

“Anyway, your Gran’pa Benson’s sudden lack of ardour will create a paradox, meaning you will never have existed. And, ceasing to exist, you will not travel back in time to visit your Grandpa, who will not be put off sex. And so you will exist once more. And you will travel back in time to visit your grandfather because you do not learn from your mistakes.

“The net result of this kerfuffle is you blinking in and out of existence, like the amber light on the traffic signals of quantum possibility. It is essentially the Schrödinger’s Cat experiment, only instead of a cat it is your grandparents humping.”

Gran’ma took her glasses off.

“Like I say, I’m no scientist,” she said, and breathed on the lenses.

Sometimes it was difficult to tell what the point of Gran’ma Benson’s stories might be.

“So… you think I should lose weight?” I said.

She didn’t look up, just carried on cleaning her glasses.

******
I’m No Scientist by Harris
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