welcome to the middle classes
You sit over a one-bar electric fire in a rented room. As soon as you feel recovered from the commute you’ll boil some potatoes on the gas ring, then, three minutes before they’re done, drop an egg into the same water. You can hear the family downstairs laughing at something, some dressed-up cats or something, on the internet. After people have cooked, they can often get use out of their gadgets–join a world building game, preorder the gadget they want next–although the load soon precipitates a brownout. During the day you work in a 7th floor office in the Strand. Publicity for a fuel corporate. It’s nice. All very heads-down but worth it to have the security. Outside it’s minus ten & you have no idea what’s happening on the old housing estates by the river. “Welcome to London,” someone in the office said today. That got a laugh. “Welcome to the managerial classes.” All he really meant was that like everyone else he would do anything to stay this side of the line.
[…] welcome to the middle classes | the m john harrison blog "Welcome to London,” someone in the office said today. That got a laugh. “Welcome to the managerial classes." I always enjoy MJH's blog, and especially his microfiction; this is a good one. (tags: mjohnharrison tinyfiction microfiction dumbcities ) […]
Anger, but not for the last generation, my shront is clean, the daneling is open.