Time flies like an arrow - but fruit flies like a banana.

Host: The night had a kind of absurd beauty to it — the kind that only exists when the world has stopped making sense. The sky was a bruise of violet and gold, the city lights blinking like lazy stars too tired to care. Somewhere in the distance, a train wailed, and the sound bent through the air like laughter wrapped in loneliness.

In a small café, hidden beneath a flickering sign, Jack and Jeeny sat across from each other — two cups of coffee, two exhausted souls, and the echo of Terry Wogan’s words hanging between them like a punchline only half-understood.

Host: The clock on the wall ticked with the authority of time itself — smug, steady, unamused.

Jeeny: (smiling) “Terry Wogan once said, ‘Time flies like an arrow — but fruit flies like a banana.’”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “That’s not philosophy, Jeeny. That’s wordplay.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But every joke has a truth behind it.”

Jack: “Or a delusion. Maybe the truth’s just the accidental byproduct of clever nonsense.”

Host: Jeeny laughed, that kind of laughter that fills the air without asking for permission. The sound was bright, but trembled slightly — like someone who laughs to avoid crying.

Jeeny: “You always dismiss humor as if it were a lesser form of wisdom. But maybe Wogan knew something the philosophers forgot — that time and absurdity are lovers, not enemies.”

Jack: (smirking) “You’re comparing love to a banana now?”

Jeeny: “I’m comparing awareness to laughter. They both happen when you finally stop trying to control the moment.”

Host: The rain outside started again, soft, erratic, like a rhythm that had lost its beat. Jack stared through the window, the reflections of headlights smearing across the glass like falling stars that refused to die quietly.

Jack: “You know what I think? Wogan was mocking us — mocking how humans take everything seriously. Time, purpose, meaning — we stretch words like rubber bands until they snap back in our faces.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe he was reminding us that words themselves are the joke. ‘Time flies like an arrow’ — so poetic, so perfect. Then he breaks it in half. Fruit flies like a banana. Suddenly, meaning collapses. You can almost hear logic tripping over its own shoelaces.”

Jack: (chuckling) “And you think that’s profound?”

Jeeny: “It is! Because it shows how fragile language is — how easily we mistake syntax for sense. The whole human race depends on order, and one misplaced phrase turns it to chaos.”

Jack: (smiling dryly) “You sound like a linguist who’s been drinking philosophy.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like a cynic who’s afraid of laughter.”

Host: The air between them shimmered with that odd tension — the kind that’s half flirtation, half warfare, where truth hides behind sarcasm and affection lurks in arguments.

Jack: (leaning forward) “Alright, Jeeny. Since you’re the prophet of punchlines — tell me what the banana means.”

Jeeny: “It means not everything worth noticing has to mean something. Sometimes absurdity is the universe laughing at its own script.”

Jack: “And we’re the actors who forgot our lines?”

Jeeny: “No — we’re the audience pretending we understand the play.”

Host: The light from the neon sign outside flickered, painting their faces in shifting colors — red, blue, gold, green — as if the universe itself couldn’t choose what emotion it wanted them to wear.

Jack: “You really think laughter can stand beside time as an equal?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Time reminds us we’re temporary; laughter reminds us we’re alive. One tells you you’re falling; the other makes the fall worthwhile.”

Jack: (quietly) “So we laugh at gravity now?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because gravity never laughs back.”

Host: For the first time that night, Jack’s smile was real — not the defensive smirk he used to hide behind, but a small, human crack in the armor. He looked down at his coffee, then up at her, as if he’d just noticed something he’d missed for years.

Jack: “You know, I used to hate jokes like that. They make people sound clever without saying anything. But maybe… maybe that’s the point. Maybe not everything we say has to save us.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Sometimes words just need to dance — even if they trip.”

Jack: “And what happens when they fall flat?”

Jeeny: “Then at least they fell trying to fly.”

Host: A moment of silence hung, broken only by the sound of rain tapping against the glass — steady, almost musical, like a metronome for thought.

Jack: “You know what else Wogan might’ve meant? That everything depends on how you read the world. Grammar is perspective. ‘Time flies like an arrow’ — we see purpose, direction, inevitability. But ‘fruit flies like a banana’ — we see mischief, contradiction. Same words. Different eyes.”

Jeeny: “Yes! That’s it. Meaning isn’t in the sentence; it’s in the reader.”

Jack: “So maybe the real difference between us and fruit flies isn’t intellect — it’s interpretation.”

Jeeny: (laughing) “Speak for yourself. I’ve seen fruit flies show more awareness than some politicians.”

Host: The laughter that followed was bright, unrestrained, and for a brief second, it felt like the whole café was breathing with them — the tables, the walls, even the clock, which seemed to tick slower, as if amused by their conversation.

Jack: “So, what do we take from this, Jeeny? That time is linear, but thought is absurd?”

Jeeny: “That maybe they’re the same thing. Time moves straight; we move crooked through it. We turn its arrow into a spiral.”

Jack: “A spiral leading where?”

Jeeny: “Back to laughter. Because if we don’t laugh, we break.”

Host: The rain had stopped, and the city lights reflected off the pavement, doubling themselves like ghosts of the moment. The air smelled of coffee, ozone, and forgiveness.

Jack: “So Wogan’s banana is just a mirror — a reminder not to take the arrow too seriously.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because no matter how fast time flies, fruit still rots — but it smells sweet before it does.”

Jack: (grinning) “You’re impossible.”

Jeeny: “And you’re predictable. Which means we balance the joke.”

Host: They sat, quiet now, the world ticking around them, each lost in the strange comfort of a shared absurdity.

Host: Outside, the neon light buzzed and died, leaving only the soft glow of the streetlamp. The night air was clear, the city sounds distant, and for the first time, Jack didn’t look like a man running from time — he looked like someone who’d decided to walk with it, at least for tonight.

Jeeny leaned back, her eyes tired but shining.

Jeeny: (softly) “Maybe that’s all it is, Jack. Time flies, fruit flies — everything moves, decays, begins again. The joke is on us if we forget to laugh while we’re spinning.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Then maybe the punchline is mercy.”

Host: The clock ticked, and somewhere in the dark, a fruit fly circled the rim of their coffee cup, tiny, persistent, alive — as if to prove the point one last time.

Time flew like an arrow. But for now, laughter lingered — like a banana.