pippychick

Now that I’ve gotten over my childishness earlier, on this Thanksgiving day, I am toying with the idea of writing a comedy/horror story where the ranks of the ghosts of the working class, past and present, conspire to terrorise their enemies. Wherein the first idiot to say: “Yeah, but they’ve got a widescreen tv to watch Jeremy Kyle on!” will be decapitated by a horrifically angry child in rags. Where London’s biggest Waitrose branch becomes a food bank. And every beautiful old building we’ve got that’s been converted into a luxury anything is immediately reclaimed as a public library/art gallery/place to hang out.   

Those hiding in the Ritz and Harrods will find themselves in a converted factory, on an production line where they have to sort stones from pebbles as piecework. Forever. The first of them to say: “I’ve worked hard for what I’ve got.” will lose a limb, teaching them a valuable lesson about what they’ve actually got, and how little it relates to imaginary work that they’ve never had to do. Until now.