A better world

by Super Fun Hannah

Mike had wanted to go off-grid for a while, and that twat saying millenials would be able to get on the property ladder if they only ate fewer smashed avocados on toast was the final straw. Packing in his bullshit job at Admiral, he had closed his bank accounts, sold his Skoda, and donated most of his cash to the local homeless foundation. Just like that guy off Into The Wild, he thought to himself, as he rummaged through his pile of things, thinning out in an attempt to make his rucksack lighter. Except he would keep his loved ones informed. What an asswipe McCandless was. Anyway, Mike didn't WANT to be a home owner and would rather enjoy avocados on toast than save for a house, but more than either of these things, he wanted to be free. He wanted to roam, to live, to love, to learn.

That night, as he lay down to sleep for what might be the last ever time in a proper bed, he reflected on the last 25 years. What had he really achieved? So he had his degree in Human Geography; 300 odd followers on Twitter; nearly half as many again on Instagram; 674 friends on Facebook last time he’d checked; a pretty decent sized catalogue of rare stamps he’d accumulated to add to his Grandfather’s collection. But what did it all mean, he ruminated as his eyelids began to droop, not a lot.

Mike woke early the next morning. He made his bed, and left the card he’d written to Yvonne, who’d be taking on his lease, propped up on the pillow. She’d let him off for not changing the sheets, they’d ended up in bed together enough times over the last two decades, what was a bit of sweat and a few errant pubes between friends? Pouring himself a cup of coffee he realised this might be the last time he held a kettle in a while, but hey, he wasn’t going to get all sentimental over kettles, of all things. He ate some toast, liberally slathered with peanut butter and jam, and composed his last Tweet: ‘I’m heading off grid. Life’s too complicated. Wish me well. #FuckYouCapitalism’, together with a picture of Emile Hirsch sat on top of a campervan. His followers would know what it meant. Or they wouldn’t. Who cared. He placed his phone on the counter, rinsed his mug and plate, and walked out the flat, keys abandoned on the work surface.

3 weeks later. Manchester city centre. 2:58am.

Mike awoke, shivering. His eyes, crusted and red, struggled to focus on the apparition before him. ‘Are you an angel?’ he croaked, through sore and cracked lips.

‘Nah! It’s my hen-do!’, the figure above him cackled. ‘Suzie got me this from the charity shop. Fucked if I’m going to wear a veil though! Spend all that money on my eyebrows and make-up, no way I’m covering it up’.

Laying his head back upon the damp cardboard beneath, Mike closed his eyes, and dreamt of kettles.