TPR was very unhappy with our new life in London. I tried to sell it to him by showing him the sights at weekends, but he was not to be converted.
Walking through Kensington one day, TPR quickened his pace. I could no longer keep up with him, and the physical distance that grew between us mirrored the state of our relationship. When I was further delayed by the need to find a bin in which to deposit an empty Coke bottle, we lost sight of one another. I sat on the steps of the Albert Hall and wept.
A small woman approached me and forced a clear plastic cup of luminous blue liquid into my hand. ‘Drink this’, she said. ‘It will make you feel better’.
There was no way that I would take a spiked drink from a stranger. However, when the woman told me that consumption of the cup’s contents would restore my fitness and win me a new gym membership, I was persuaded to change my mind.
The first drink went down well. Feeling much happier, I stood up and set off to find TPR again.
Then I drank a second cup of liquid. This was a terrible mistake. I was transported to a long, narrow, enclosed corridor. I ran along it as fast as I could, pushing open fire-doors along the way. I called out TPR’s name in a desperate plea for rescue, but to no avail. I was stuck here, forever, on my own.
Dreamaticus 