He woke from a crazy dream. He had taken a job – or had one forced on him, essentially – and he was filling tacos. (Not a metaphor). The pub where he drank, which he visited, the one he watched gigs at most often, well, it had opened a food-stand right there at the end of its bar. And he had taken the job of preparing the food, making tacos. He was on display as he scrambled to put in the right amount of lettuce and take out anything that wasn’t meant to be there. Stuffing these things as the orders piled up. And he couldn’t get it right. Just as he finished making one a dinging-bell told him he was at least one order behind. And every time he handed one over – served up on a plate – the person at the end of it would just laugh. Some decided to spit and hand it back, one just dropped the plate on the floor, let it smash; a stomp of the shoes. And off. They weren’t being charged, but they wanted to let it be known that their time was valuable. And wasted here. Clearly.
Just then he woke up. The sound of broken crockery ringing somewhat – but relief! So pleased that was not his real job. Just a dream. A nightmare in fact. He pushed the covers back and got on with his ‘real job’. Got started for the day. Nothing like that awful nonsense. He sat at the computer, pushed his first opinion piece into place. Published. Just like that. The internet. So easy now to publish. And on your own terms. What could possibly go wrong?