It starts with alarms. It ends with alarms. Your life is an unending commercial. The concept of a house, a home, a perfect one - all of it, is a commercial. The perfect floor cleaner, the freshest eggs, the strongest coffee, the best frikkin detergent powder for all those tough stains. The hum of the fridge, the beep of the microwave, the whirr of the mixer, the splashing of the washing machine, the blare of the TV – SFX baby. And you. You are at the centre of it all. The moronic model. The sampler. The example. The user of things.

Once you step out of the house/home, you are in a film. Or a music video at best. Life is hurled at you and you forge through the bloody deluge. You have to. You’re a hero. In a frikkin epic. The streets are difficult. Monsters, everywhere. Jungle beasts. But you hold your own. You’re programmed to. Like a zombie. Because this. Is. A. Horror movie.

There’s no time for niceties. Only at home. With tea and biscuits and yakkity yak. When you’re a Stepford wife. Then you’re nice. You’re very, very nice.

At work, the horror continues. Continues. Continues. Continues. Like a stuck reel. It just frikkin continues. Like your scariest movie moment. Mine’s a moment from ‘The Exorcist’. It’s green and disgusting and mind-blowingly twisted.

When you get back, when you do eventually, you are sick. Spotted, rotten, diseased. Your mind and your body are adjusting to your expendable, clout-less existence. Give it time. Once you’re in Stage-4 Zombiehood, you’ll be ABSOLUTELY FINE.

When you go to sleep...do you hear the alarms ring? Anyway, there’s always morning.