I woke with a jolt. What was that dream? Being chased along a dirt road by Steve Buscemi. The room was dark, but clearly morning had shown up and I craved a Rolex watch. Suddenly I was brushing my teeth. Then, work.
 
I wasn’t cut out for normality. I stared at my boss as he explained stock counts to a new employee. He was a pathetic man and I hated him. If you informed me that a fridge had toppled upon him, I’d likely retort; “So what?”
 
There was a time when I too had been a new employee. I only took the job for quick cash. Now it was seven years. Seven years had evaporated, just like that.
 
If you asked me what had happened over the past seven years, I would have to say this: I figured out which hair products work best for me. But in truth, the thought of seven acclaim-less years hurt. Wasted opportunity. And for a man like me, it was a serious waste. I guess I was coasting but, in many ways, there’s nothing harder than coasting. Beyond the tedium, work wasn’t a challenge, and I was single, which meant that the most complex new relationship I had navigated outside of family and work was with a pet goldfish. He lasted about three weeks, and, from it, I learnt very little about people.
 
Last night I was dreaming again. Steve Buscemi chasing me across some wasteland while barking like a mad dog. It had a ring of the T S Eliot about it. Then, I entered a small hut. Margot Robbie was waiting for me but I couldn’t get a good read on her. I found it odd that she was holding a large slab of cheddar cheese. What did she plan to do with it? Then my teeth fell out and turned into a Nordic wig.
 
In work, the next day, I found myself analysing the dream. I don’t say this lightly, but I believe that Margot loves me.
 
I was always insinuating to my dumb work colleagues that I was planning to fuck off to greener pastures. I was going to be famous, and I made sure they knew that they would one day be looking up at me (rather than sideways across a shop). I achieved this by scoffing, a lot. I had a mark to make on the human species and I didn’t much care what it was or how it was done. Hell, I’d sell my soul if it meant they’d put me on a billboard. I wasn’t pretentious. I didn’t indulge in the shallowness of human pride. Things like principles meant nothing to me. You either win, lose, or remain irrelevant. Everything else is academic.
 
Maybe, I’d be a philosopher. Like one of the French ones. I knew how to sit in a café, and I knew how to smoke. All I had to do was learn French. But, as things stood, I could only really communicate effectively in English and eyerolls.
 
Now, more time had elapsed, and it was the end of the month. My pay had just come in. Off to town to chase down the ladies, I thought. Time to raise the stakes. Time to show my worth. I had failed to care for my goldfish, but I believed I could satisfy a woman. All I had to do was offer to buy her some drinks. But what happens when they say they don’t want your drinks? In France, they have an answer to such questions: baguettes.
 
I found myself dreaming again. Someone held me aloft. I felt proud and important. I could see the entire world hovering below, suspended in space. Was it so great? It just looked like a well-used, moss-infested tennis ball. Comparably, I had good hair and I had good taste in music. I could see the world spinning. Why so slow? A little faster, please. Then, all out of nowhere, Robert Lindsay socked me in the jaw.