A while back now, Richy Rich woke up one morning distressed and agitated. He’d dreamt I’d left him for Thom Yorke. He’d ended up living in a burnt out Ford Focus in the Somerfield car park, next to the recycle bins. With Chunky Stan, the dog. When he told me, I couldn’t help having a chuckle. So silly.
Anyway, Richy couldn’t shake off the dream. It stayed with him for weeks. He would shudder when Radiohead tracks came on the radio. And I noticed look over towards the recycle bins, poignantly, when we went shopping in Somerfield.
One Monday morning, I at work, a tiny bit bored, when my phone rang. It was my boss. “Morning! Are you busy Friday morning?” she asked.
“No, I don’t think so,” I replied, cheerfully.
“Good, I’d like you to film Thom Yorke. He’ll come into the office around 10am”.
‘Blimey’, I thought to myself, as I hung up, ‘Richy ain’t going to like this one little bit’.