The Gravity-Optional Town of Wobblebottom

Bartholomew "Barty" Bumble arrived in Wobblebottom with a suitcase full of sensible shoes and an unwavering belief in Newtonian physics. He quickly realized Wobblebottom preferred its physics à la carte. His first morning, his teacup levitated to the ceiling, spilling Earl Grey onto the mayor's pet cloud, Nimbus, who promptly rained blueberry muffins. Barty stared. A worm, sporting a monocle and a tiny bowler hat, tap-danced past, humming a Wagnerian aria. "Morning, chaps!" it chirped, before executing a flawless backflip off a lamppost.

"Is this... customary?" Barty asked a lady using a butterfly net to retrieve her toast from a low-flying pigeon.

"Oh, mostly," she replied, not looking up. "Except on Tuesdays, when the trees whistle jazz and the lampposts complain about their existential dread."

Barty tried to maintain decorum. He attempted to sit on a park bench, only for it to sprout wings and attempt migration to a warmer climate. His toothbrush demanded to know its purpose in the grand scheme of the universe. The local bakery sold "anti-gravity bread" which, when consumed, made you hum an octave higher for exactly 37 minutes and occasionally turn plaid.

One afternoon, desperate for a quiet cuppa, Barty braced himself. He poured the tea, gripping the cup with white knuckles. It vibrated, glowed faintly, then shot upwards. He sighed, retrieved a small fishing net from his pocket – a Wobblebottom essential he'd reluctantly purchased – and expertly reeled it back in. He took a sip. "Hmm, perfect." The worm tap-danced by again, now wearing tiny tap shoes. "Getting the hang of it, eh, chap?" Barty just nodded, adjusting the miniature fishing line attached to his teacup. He had stopped questioning. He had started living. And he had a strong suspicion his sensible shoes were about to become very unpopular with his new, perpetually airborne loafers.