Thread by @ANNAMoneyUK

It’s Tuesday. We’re all still in lockdown, so we are going to tell you a story. The story of YOU, in a parallel world in which there is no pandemic.

You bound out of bed, full of vim and energy. You wolf down a bowl of Coco Pops and head out of the door with a spring in your step. You’re a go-getter! An achiever! A lover AND a fighter. You swig an energy drink as you run for the bus. You’re a cheetah in the urban jungle.

On the street, dogs of all shapes and sizes gather in your wake. Poodles! Terriers! Golden retrievers! Maybe because they recognise your inner goodness? Or because you have accidentally left a trail of sausages hanging out of your back pocket? You let the dogs have the sausages.

At the bus stop you bump into former England cricket captain Michael Atherton. “Thanks for being a lovely cricketer,” you say. “No, thank YOU for doing [insert whatever it is you do],” he replies. “You’re the real hero!” He hugs you and you feel proud.

On the bus a child is playing a game out loud on his phone. You shake your head sadly towards him and he plugs in some headphones, but first takes the time to apologise for the noise, and to compliment you on your cravat. It is a particularly fetching cravat.

As the bus heads into town you sketch out some of your ideas for improving the Large Hadron Collider, and email Heston Blumenthal about a new custard that will surprise everyone by tasting of custard. The classic custard double bluff.

You get off the bus and and strut into the office. Everyone high-fives you because you’ve increased profitability and morale, and in doing so created a non-hierarchical environment in which everyone collectively takes responsibility for decisions. Also, you’ve brought doughnuts.

(Yes, it’s doughnuts, not donuts. Some things are important.)

You instantly integrate with your team. "Eduardo, verify the Belize figures." "Nuno, capture the soup flags!" "Katerina, are we playing Moscow rules?" "Benton, make sure that spreadsheet is gluten free!" Energy fizzes and crackles like Rice Krispies in a bowl full of capitalism.

You feel good. Your chakras are aligned and your sinuses are clear. And then you see him; your enemy; your nemesis: the only person in the office who won’t play ball: Mississippi Pete (he’s not from Mississippi, he’s from Nottingham, but he dresses as a steamboat captain).

"Hello Pete," you say.

"Hello [insert whatever you’re called], still trying to make the world a better place? Pah!" he replies.

"Yes. Maybe I’m a dreamer. A fool. But I believe in goodness."

You pause to stroke Nancy, the office koala, whom you’re nursing back to health.

"Goodness!" he cackles, Doritos falling from his mouth.

"The only things that matter in this life are supercars, Champions League football and Top Gear DVD box sets!"

You’ve explained to him many times that he can now stream Top Gear, but he’s still obsessed with the box sets.

In a puff of sulphur and Imperial Leather he is gone. And though you try to forget him, you can’t shake off the memory of his cackles and guffaws. His words gnaw at you like a puppy on a sofa leg. Maybe he’s right.

For lunch you prepare a simple Bento box, following the lessons you learnt in your five years working unpaid at Tokyo’s humblest sushi restaurant.

"Be the fish," you whisper, as you twitch your dorsal fin. Your scales shimmer an iridescent rainbow.

In the afternoon you work closely with Karen and Pavel on your project to turn the country’s redundant Fax machines into multimedia infotainment hubs that educate the public on the importance of pensions, but you’re distracted by thoughts of Pete.

Suddenly, you hear something. The worst thing you can hear in an office: a kerfuffle! You’re the office-appointed Kerfuffle Aider, and you haven’t forgotten your training. You sprint towards the danger, bursting into the men’s toilets. You see him. Pete.

Mississippi Pete is in trouble. He has slipped whilst tap dancing on the toilet seat (despite the MANY posters you put up, warning of the dangers of dancing on slippery bathroom surfaces) and his foot has lodged in the U-bend. He’s sobbing like an otter.

This is bad. Everyone knows about Pete’s morbid fear of bends (despite the Mississippi being one of American’s bendiest rivers). You roll up your sleeves, grab Pete’s leg and heave. Your muscles bulge. Sweat sluices down your arms. There is a mighty pop; Pete’s foot is free!

For moments you lie there together on the toilet floor, panting. No longer enemies. Just two employees united by a mutual goal. Then Pete stands up and offers you a hand. You take it and rise with him. He looks you in the eyes and speaks: "Thank you," he says.

"I suppose I always hated you because deep down I wanted to be you," Pete sobs (this feels like quite a clumsy bit of exposition).

You hug him and tell him that you always admired his independent spirit and the courage of his convictions (this is a white lie).

You are busy all afternoon. You get three missed calls from Lady Gaga, but you ignore them because you’re trying to give each other some space. Time heals all wounds.

As you walk to the bus stop you’re once again followed by a crowd of dogs, but this time there are no sausages.

They crowd around you barking: "You’re the best human!" (You learnt their language during a gap year on the Isle of Dogs).

On the bus, you find yourself sitting next to Bruce Springsteen. You tell him you’ve always enjoyed his rootsy brand of blue collar Americana.

He responds by saying: "Hey, [insert your name], as far as I’m concerned YOU’RE The Boss!" You blush but deep down you know he’s right.

As you walk from the bus stop home, you take time to high-five every single person on your street (even Mark at no.54). Two middle-aged men do a chest bump, but you look away, embarrassed.

There is just no need for it

That night you dream of Manderley.

But that’s another story for another day. Now we must return you to your usual Tuesday in lockdown. We hope you enjoyed your brief holiday in the realm of the imagination.

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