Was I awake? Did it even matter? Growing up is getting over the idea that you may be living in a simulation.

They had told me I needed to grow up. Was it because I was forty-two and still trying to win at Saturday night?

“Don’t go home yet. This night could really go somewhere.”

This was my self-talk.

I was in the gutter and a middle-aged woman was throwing up next to me. What on earth had she been eating earlier? Everything I’d ever done had led me here. Every decision I’d ever made, this was the outcome. Right now. This moment. Hitherto, this was the place where all that education and procrastination had delivered me. I judged the vomiter, then I looked up into the street life. Someone was singing badly and someone was threatening to nut them for it.

I thought back to being a youngster in school. They were telling me to grow up back then too. I always thought I was either too short or not popular enough. Sometimes both. Maybe they were related. Apparently tall people are more likely to be presidents. What was I meant to do with that information? Strop? People forget that life is an absurd miracle – one wrong turn by some slimy organism two hundred million years ago and we never develop the ability to speak, let alone engage in civil discourse. Yes, we forget that, but we always remember where we were in the high school pecking order. And even more disturbing, I fear it is the root cause of every decision I ever make.

I sighed at the thought. Ah, malaise. Ennui. It never really changes, despite all the podcasts. Worse, this certainly wasn’t going to be the perfect Saturday night. If there was a great party going on somewhere, I didn’t know where it was, and the hosts weren’t hoping for a sad forty-two year old man to show up with four cans of Red Stripe.

The seagulls were out. They were circling overhead.

A man approached me.

“Are you alive?” He asked of me, softly.

“Go away, strange man,” I replied in haste. I was in no mood.

He smiled. He seemed the embodiment of peace, despite the fact someone slightly to the left of him was getting beaten up with an inflatable penis.

“What is your story?” He asked, softly. Ever so softly.

“Look, I’ve been out all day. I’m half-cut, I’m tired, and it’s quite possible that I’m wasting my life. Get off my case and let me think.”

He approached further until he was very close indeed. Put his hand on my shoulder. He had no scent.

“It’s okay, young man.”

I scoffed.

“What’s your game?” I retorted.

“I’ve been sent to relay a message. I’ve been sent to make it all clear to you. I’ve been sent to deliver some very important information. There is a plan of action. Have faith, young man.”

I gawked at him. I admit it, I was confused.

“Look mate, get to the punchline. Is it money you’re after? If so, you’re out of luck. Half of it is up my nose and the other half is hanging out of some stripper’s thong.

He looked deep into my eyes.

“You are the lamb of God.”

I stared at this man.

“What?”

“Quite simply, you are the lamb of God.”

I felt a pang of pain in my left side. Probably wind. Too much Red Stripe.

“God has sent me to inform you that you are doing a great job. He’s proud of you, his firstborn. Being a prophet is no easy task. Have faith in the process. It will all become apparent.”

It sounds crazy to say it, but I believed him. I can’t explain why, but it was a feeling. Like one I’d never experienced before. That was the first time I truly realised that you can’t express meaning, you can only feel it.

I hugged this peculiar man.

He smiled, then evaporated.

I was stunned.

My self-talk changed immediately:

“I will do more from here on in! Set an alarm for six thirty in the morning and don’t snooze it.”

I started walking home. It was time to grow up.

I’d only gone about twenty yards, and yet, I’d already mapped out a better future for myself and the world. For the first time in years I was thriving, then a seagull shat on my head and a bulging group of bellowing rugby lads laughed in my puny face.