Come close now, oh my beloved readers, and point your satellite-disks in my direction, for it is time for yet another tale of the low and far-down times in the second decade of the twenty first century. Allow me, if you will, to describe for you the peculiar series of events that occurred in a call centre placed on the back of a roundabout in the middle of a triple-dip chocolate-chip recession one Thursday afternoon at the end of May.

The weather was grey. A solid block of grey that surrounded the executive and slightly less executive cars in the car park like a strong arm clad in a shiny grey executive suit. This is always the weather surrounding call centres, it is constantly on the verge of a slight drizzle, but never has the guts to even threaten to rain. On this day mark our protagonist, Brian Braindrain, who after many years education, exhilaration and joy has finally had to place himself in the employ of the call centre around which this story so graciously centres.

Mark the black suit, the down at heel and cheapest shoes, the lanyard and badge about his neck that though light in themselves appear to perceptively pull him down into a stoop. He swipes in and walks up a corridor to a large and spacious cafeteria whereupon he produces a tinfoil package (a cheese and pickle sandwich) which he places in the fridge to provide him with a cheap diversion when the lunch break breaks.

Observe him further as he walks back along the corridor and enters another room, a giant aircraft hanger of a room, where massive banners hang from the ceiling in great swathes of commercial authority and power. The place is awash with desks in no particular structure or order, they swoop in elegant curves and join in with each other seamlessly like drops of yellow oil on a water bath. To the left of centre is Brian’s desk, his computer keyboard and mouse a greasy translucent khaki from contact with his and other’s finger flesh, hand-sweat and snot-wipes.

It takes him ten minutes to log on, whilst all around him his co-workers squabble like battery-hens, and you will excuse the slow pace of this narrative, dear reader, if I tell you that for the purposes of fully appreciating the stultifying ennui of young Brian’s existence we must continue, for now, and when I remember, in the present tense.

His hands, with uneven nails and reddened knuckles, rattle on the keys with a loud, almost indulgent racket, a small part of Brian’s little ego priding itself on a one hundred word per minute typing speed complete with minor hand flourishes and decided, final-penultimate, syncopated key-hits. What we have to understand is his psychology, one born of self-belief, pride, and a degree of hubris which had resulted in dissatisfaction, disillusion, and ultimately his current unimpressive aprés-uni employment which called neither for his skills nor his creativity. But gosh was he a lovely typer.

Brian’s job involved fielding calls from people who bought Earth Television, a well-known and reputable provider of illusion, delusion, propaganda and sports. Many people, Brian imagined, must pay this company on time, receive their television, and live quite harmless, happy lives being no bother to themselves or anyone else. However, the people who rang Brian were almost uniformly those who had not paid for their Earth Television, and who wanted to know why Earth had subsequently cut their services off.

“I’ve been a loyal customer of Earth for ten years”

Shouted one woman; DOB 30/Feb/1964, Account Password “naughty”;

“And I cant believe you’ve just cut me off without even sending me a letter.”

Brian shrugged, tapped a couple of keys and brought up a record of correspondence.

“We sent you an email the day after your direct debit failed to process asking you to call us to make payment and then set up a new one.”

“Oh, OK, well, I still don’t think you should have cut me off like that, I think I’m due some compensation and I want my Earth back on NOW.”

“I can put your Earth back on if you pay the bill and set up a direct debit.”

“I don’t see why I should, get me a manager”

“My supervisor wont put your services back on unless you pay the money you owe Earth. When you pay for your television you can watch it, but not before.”

“I don’t like your tone.”

This was a fairly typical conversation, although you will appreciate for the purposes of this narrative, entirely fictitious. Now Brian was not entirely unhappy in his work, sometimes he had entertaining conversations, or at least conversations where people paid their bills and weren’t so damned patronising and stupid, but on this particular day the barrage of idiots was wearing him down. Five minutes until a break. Four. Three. A call came through and Brian spent twenty minutes explaining to an incomprehensible Welshman that if he wanted his phone line relocated he’d have to pay for it.

Brian shrugged off his headset and went on his break, wandering off to empty his bladder at the nearest toilet. On entering the disinfected realm of the disaffected, he discovered all the urinals in use, and so doubled back to use the “disabled” although apparently functional latrine next door. He was just about to unzip his flies when he noticed that the water in the bowl was spinning. Slowly, languidly, it spun in a lazy whirlpool.

“That’s odd”

Brian thought, and shook his head in case this was some form of hallucination which, logically, one can remove by head-shaking. The water continued to move, round and round the bowl, there seemed to be more of it welling up from underneath. Brian had  a brief moment of horror that he would be soaked in sewage, when the water spun faster and rose in a clear column. The top of this column gushed like a fountain, and the bulbous promontory of moving water began to resemble a head with long hair. Colours started developing, and the top of the fountain bulged until it shimmered into the shape of a beautiful woman all wrapped about in green, sitting cross-legged atop the column of water.

The Dryad fixed Brian with a green-eyed gaze and spake thus:

“Oh wayward one and one-time wastrel

You will work until your body crumbles

Mind melted out like ceiling wax

Soul dried out by a thousand tumbles.”

And although this means very little to you, dear readers, and when first I read this it meant very little to me, it will later transpire through the development of our fable that the Dryad’s verse was no mere flippantry, but rather a prophetic command of such immense power that Brian was cast inextricably into it’s spell.

The Dryad, having little else to do, extended her left hand and flushed herself back down the loo.

And Brian, as in a dreamless sleep-state, walked back out to his desk, sat down at the keyboard, and readjusted his head-set over his right ear. As he fielded calls over the afternoon this ear gradually became hot. At first it seemed merely that the leatherette earpiece on his head-set was making his ear-sweat, or the containment and insulation it provided was generating enough heat to melt his ear-wax. As his shift continued, however, Brian began to develop a mild, numb, slick sensation in his aural cavity, his thoughts became confused, there was a brief moment of worry – was it pain? – before his mind stilled, went blank, and out the other ear grew a black plastic curly vine that resembled the coiled wire leading to the headset on the other side. Yes, Brian’s headset, enchanted by the Dryad, had grown right through his brain secreting aesthetic which gently numbed the pain whilst roots sucked out every last thought.

You may well imagine how distressing it would be to discover that one was the victim of such a parasite – an insidious coil that saps one’s very intelligence. The difficulty for Brian was he was not sure what had happened. His heart knew something was wrong, but in his mentally weakened state he couldn’t fathom what it was, only that he couldn’t take his headset off, and so at the end of his shift he unplugged it and wore it as he left the call centre.

Walking down the street aimlessly, Brian was suddenly accosted by two short men with thick curly hair and sharp, pointy beards. They were dressed as executives, and they grabbed Brian by either arm before bundling him into the back of a van. Brian’s eyes saw, although his brain did not process, the logo emblazoned on the side of the van. It was a green well and bucket with the tag-line:

“Dryadon Cleaning Services Ltd.”

Brian almost knew he was being driven somewhere, and he knew he was no longer in control. His soul fought within his breast to make itself understood, but alas his brain had long since fallen victim to the perfidious root permeating his cranium. He tried escaping the van, beat his hands against the walls, but could form no plan because he had lost the power of thought.

The van stopped, the doors opened, and Brian stepped out, blinking into a bright strip-lit warehouse. At the other end of this warehouse was an enormous tumble-drier thirty feet tall and twenty across, and a wide set of stairs leading up to its open door. The bearded men grabbed Brian’s arms and dragged him towards it, and struggle as he might there was no release from the tree-root strength of those shiny-suited guards. At the door Brian tried to scream, but when he opened his mouth out dropped a bundle of electrical cables where his headset, having consumed everything of value in his head, was putting out more questing roots.

They flung Brian in and slammed the door. There was a quiet click as it locked automatically. The massive drum rolled for a few seconds in one direction. Brian tripped on a cable that had grown from his mouth all the way down to his foot and fell. When the drum rolled the other way Brian fell over himself like so much old laundry. The drum picked up speed, and Brian found himself stuck, spread out on its surface and held down by the centrifugal force. A blast of hot air began and he realised for a second, a split second, the smallest shard of a second when the faint remains of his brain connected briefly with his very soul and being that this was it, he was going to be dried out, desiccated.

As the drum spun a green liquid flowed out the side of the machine through a clear plastic pipe. It ran along the warehouse floor then underground to a shop down the road. This shop was run by a beautiful green-eyed woman and sold “Inspiration Biscuits”, delicious cakes that left one feeling elated, in control and thoroughly satisfied, all for one Euro sixty-five. No-one who bought them knew the secret ingredient of these superlative comestibles – just that it was vivid green and ran from a tap in the kitchen marked “quintessence.”

When the tumble-drier opened all that was left was grey fluff.

If you need some filthy lucre and you don’t care how you get it

You can graft and grind and save it up – but listen, you can bet it

Will begin to dry you out – dry you out and leave you brainless

So I couldn’t advise it, I wouldn’t risk it

Instead have yourself an inspiration biscuit

Because if desiccation is the only other option

Dreaming dreams in poverty’s comparatively painless.