At the top of a tower of tottering chairs, I sit down with the new boss to discuss my future. I have, as instructed, brought a signed and dated photograph of myself, and something that I love. The former is already an issue, as it’s apparently not dated enough, and I should have been wearing a loose jacket with shoulder pads and the sleeves rolled up, or maybe flared trousers and a nylon shirt with wide lapels. The new boss looks disappointed but gestures for me to follow him down the jumbled pile and out into the unrecognisable streets, which are paved in marble and knee-deep in surprisingly clear water, in which vicious fish, reminiscent of medieval apocalypse scenes, snap and thrash. We splash our way to a pavement café, where I order us both coffee and chicory syrup with a dash of dried milk that won’t dissolve. Then, I look at the sky, which promises a storm, and I look at roads twisting into the distance and try to calculate how far it is to the nearest place I know. About the thing you love, says the new boss, in a voice weighted with lead and brimstone. I pull out a stool and there it sits. Oh, deary me, says the new boss, in a voice that is now a dull blade through bone. Oh deary, deary me.
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Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor
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