"The first step toward achieving nothing is realising you don't need to move at all."

— The Tao of Idleness, Book 1, Verse 3

I wasn’t late. Not technically.

It was 8:02 AM, and my appointment at the Job Centre wasn’t until 9:15. Plenty of time, right? And yet, somehow - starting with the complete failure of my alarm to go off - it already felt like the universe was in full conspiratorial mode against me. My ‘Work Coach’ – Steve - wasn’t known for his overly warm approach to customer service, and he’d already made it very clear that if I didn’t show up on time, he’d ‘sanction’ me so hard I’d be pissing blood for the next month. Okay, so he probably didn’t say that. But nothing good ever follows a word like ‘sanction.’ And no money meant no pizza. And no pizza basically meant I might as well kill myself right now.

Thus, the stakes around my timely arrival at the Aston Job Centre were appropriately high. Which was a problem for someone whose entire existence was built around keeping the stakes as low as humanely possible. So, whilst for most normal people, 9:15 might seem a long way off, my default setting of epic laziness was currently engaged in an epic stealth war with my dread that if I didn’t get my arse up now, I’d be royally screwed.

Eventually, self-preservation won the battle, and I groaned, rolling off the sofa in the most ungraceful way possible, feeling something squelch under my foot. A quick glance confirmed it wasn’t cat vomit (yay!), but instead a rather sopping wet patch in the middle of the carpet that had been there for weeks. Thinking on it, this was probably a net loss in the whole ‘avoid developing pneumonia’ stakes. In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s started developing its own weather patterns. But that’s a problem for this evening’s James. Hopefully, one who is in possession of a couple of slices of double pepperoni.

"Alright, brave old world. Let’s get this over with."

I grabbed yesterday’s jeans from the floor, yanked a hoodie over my stained t-shirt, and jammed my feet into the only pair of intact trainers I still possessed. My phone was on the coffee table, screen cracked, but still hanging on—much like myself. Do you like what I did there? That’s a metaphor, that is. I swiped it up, down, left and right and generally managed to bamboozle it into letting me check the time again. Still 8:02. Yeah. The universe is trying to fuck me up.

Checking the clock in the kitchenette – 8:27! – meant I still had a less than-evens chance to achieve my goal of avoiding the kind of consequences usually reserved for missing loan repayments to someone called Shotgun Eddie. And that was if I really hustled. Which I am forever loathed to do. But then again, what was it Steve had said in his text? I look forward to assisting you with your employment needs, but failure to attend your scheduled meeting will result in immediate sanctions. Ominous much?

The UK government isn’t known for its subtlety when it comes to taking things away from you. And having just been released from a few months at His Majesty’s pleasure, I feel like I have the requisite experience to comment. Even now that I’m free, it appears that any money I’m able to scrap together is at the top of their list to requisition too. So, yeah. Fuck the idea of sanctions. I wasn’t exactly living in luxury as it was, and that extra bit of cash mattered. It was certainly impetus enough to pull me out of my doom-scrolling pit and out into the real world.

Stepping outside, only just remembering to pull the door shut behind me in my haste, I was greeted by the sight of inner-city Birmingham in all its glory—grey skies, wet pavement, and a drizzle that felt personal. It wasn’t real rain – not like the deluge proper countries get – but it was certainly enough to make me regret every single life choice I’d made in the last twenty-three years. Starting with squirming around a bit and moving towards the light when it all got a bit squeezy and ending with opening my eyes this morning.

For this time of morning, the road outside my building was strangely deserted, aside from a white van parked way too close to the curb. I stepped off the pavement without bothering to check for traffic—because who really needs to look both ways, right?

HONK!

I nearly shat myself at the unexpected noise and froze mid-step as a delivery van karoomed past me, missing my nose by the width of my current sense of self-worth. The driver yelled something out the window that I couldn’t quite catch, but I’m sure was perfectly complimentary. I blinked, not quite processing what had just nearly happened and yelled back. “Fuck you, wanker!”

Despite – or maybe because of - the wit and sophistication of my comeback, the van disappeared on its way down the road, tyres skidding slightly as it rounded the corner. I did my best to still my beating heart, shook my head and set off walking again, diving across the much busier dual carriageway up ahead despite my recent near miss. I mean, what was I supposed to do? I wasn’t exactly in a rush to die today, but for once, I had a goal. Getting to my appointment was a priority that trumped whatever vehicular homicide fantasies random delivery men possessed.

**8:37 AM**

Crossing the park was the fastest route to my assignation with the delectable Steve, and as normal, at this time in the morning, it was fairly peaceful. After all, no knife-toting twelve-year-old would be seen dead this close to a school. Today, though, everything felt a little... off. The trees loomed higher than I remembered, their branches swaying in the slight breeze like they were waving ‘goodbye’ to me. Whoa. Cool your jets, raging paranoia. Even without my brain’s efforts to anthropomorphise the fucking landscape, I started stepping pretty carefully as the path was slick with rain, whilst every pigeon I passed eyeballed me like I’d said something about their sister.

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To distract myself from the increasingly weird vibe, I visualised crashing a free kick into the top corner in front of the Holte End, the crowd going wild, as I smacked a loose stone with my laces. I was actually pretty proud of my tekkers as I watched it sail along the grass ahead of me.

Then, a scream of agony made me pause. Up ahead, it appeared that a cyclist speeding directly for me had just been struck full in the face by something—I’m going to be honest here; it was probably a massive rock kicked by an inconsiderate pedestrian. The motoring, Lycra-clad dude wobbled dangerously, arms flailing, before careening off the path – was he aiming right for me? That was a bit weird - and into a nearby bush.

I winced as the guy disappeared into the shrubbery and down a steep bank into the woods beyond. “You alright, mate?” I called half-heartedly after him, but he was already racing too far into his leafy grave to hear me. Not my problem. My fault. Absolutely my fault. But if there was ever a time in my life when I was good at taking responsibility for my actions, it wasn’t going to be today.

I glanced at my phone. 8:02. So that was still not ideal. Fortunately, the church on the corner still had a sense of decency, and its clock tower informed me it was 8:42. Time was slipping by, but – near-death experiences and random assaults on cyclists aside - I was making acceptable progress. All things being equal, I still had a shot at this.

**8:48 AM**

I was cutting through the park at a decent pace now, half-jogging in the strange, loping gait I used whenever the occasion demanded it. I wasn’t exactly an athlete – in the same way as a crocodile isn’t exactly a great choice for a children’s nanny - but desperation and a craving for the continued availability of pizza will do wonders for even my woeful levels of motivation. The rain, though, was starting to pick up, and I felt the first few heavier drops soak through my hoodie and onto my skin. Great. Just what I needed. A run, wet clothes and a meeting with Steve. I wasn’t sure there was going to be a big enough Dominoes in the world to make this all okay.

I was moping so hard that when there was a squeak of wheels to my right, I almost didn’t react in time. However, at just the right moment, an especially big raindrop caught me square in the eye, making me pause in time to see the biggest fuck-off pushchair in the world roll past me, completely unattended. My brain didn’t quite register what was happening at first—just that there was a massive pram whizzing by, a baby screaming, and then it was on me, heavy metal wheels crushing my toes. Swearing, I hopped back, barely avoiding getting wiped out, and turned to watch the killer buggy skid to a halt a little way short of ending up in the middle of the road. A crying mother, looking pale and frantic, ran past, glaring at me as if the whole debacle was my fault. I shrugged back at her and kept moving. I didn’t have time to play Good Samaritan this morning. If she couldn’t keep hold of her kid’s battle wagon, that was her lookout. And it was a fucking massive buggy!

Okay, I’m not a complete asshole, so I know that I don’t come out of that little interaction – nor the one with the cyclist - especially well. It’s not that I didn’t care, but when you only have so much pity to go around, the ‘self’ vintage tends to be the casket you draw from. What can I say? Life’s been coming at me pretty fast of late, and if you want to judge, fine. Join the club. They’ve got jackets, a membership list and are looking for a venue in which to host their Christmas party. Ask for Sonia the Whore, she’ll sign you up for the newsletter. Probably fuck you, too.

Mood almost totally ruined – and, let me tell you, it didn’t start out at sunshine and rainbows level, either – I made it out of the park gate without ruining anyone else’s day and turned left onto Coppice Street. I was nearly at the Job Centre, but oddly, my growing sense of my impending doom was growing, not receding. Nevertheless, I knew that if I could just avoid any more life-or-death situations, I might actually make it on time. And then Steve could suck it.

Up ahead, in the centre of a crossroads I needed to negotiate, there was some kind of bullshit construction going on. I ignored the barriers and ‘Keep Out’ signs as I shortcutted my way through a bunch of very pissed-off workers drinking tea. I was nearly halfway through when I heard it. A sharp snap followed by an epic creaking noise. I looked up, squinting through the rain, just in time to see a metal beam start to sway dangerously from the scaffolding above.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Thanks to an instinct I did not know I possessed – where was all this self-preservation when the bad thing happened? - I took a massive leap forward, my foot landing in a strangely conveniently placed puddle and skidded another few yards onwards just as the beam came crashing down behind me with a thunderous crash. The ground shook, and bits of debris scattered across the street. The construction workers, who were not exactly filled with sympathy for my near cataclysmic plight, shouted something about “protocols” and “close calls” at me, but I wasn’t listening. I flicked up my hood and kept running, not even bothering to wipe the dust from my clothes.

**8:59 AM**

The rain had picked up to a proper downpour now. My hoodie clung to me, completely soaked, and I could feel water squelching in my shoes. Brilliant. I checked my phone again. 8:02 AM. Awesome. I still had plenty of time, but – catching sight of a digital screen of the bus shelter - not as much as I thought I would. Fortunately, the street ahead was still fairly empty – oddly so, considering we were now very much into rush-hour territory. Was there a bomb scare or something? - aside from a few illegal cabs and that fucking delivery van again. Maybe he was back for another go?

I was almost there. Almost.

That’s when fruit betrayed me. In the way I always knew it would.

One moment, I was running – not in a way anyone would recognise as such, but pretty fucking fast for me - minding my own business, and the next, I was suddenly airborne. My foot had landed on a literal fucking banana skin and gone from under me. However, before I could even register my disgust at what was happening, I had crashed back down on my back, and was staring up at the dark, rainy sky. I groaned, blinking water (blood?) out of my eyes. My whole body hurt, and my phone... oh, my phone. It had landed face down in the puddle beside me. I reached for it, wiping . . . liquids off its screen. Still cracked. But still working, though. At least I had that going for me. I dragged myself to my feet, my jeans now fully soaked through, too. I checked the time. 8:59. Still the smidgen of a chance I could make it to my appointment.

In retrospect, I should have noticed that little clue something was up. . .

I hadn’t even managed to get moving again before there was, once again – fucking hell, this shit doesn’t quit, does it? – the sound of tyres skidding across wet tarmac. I looked up into the grill of the delivery van, and that was the last thing I saw before everything went terminally black.

*

Somewhere Else

A voice, deep and amused, echoed through the darkness.

“Got him! About fucking time.”