My goldfish won’t stop crying and it’s rather disconcerting. Especially when I have guests round. Like the other night, Alexander, you know, the one from the bakery, tall guy, dark skin, he came round for a couple of drinks and I cooked him a chicken salad, no dressing or carbs, I want to keep that body trim as much as he does. Well, we’d finished dinner, he’d told me stories of 4am starts to make tiger bread and finally explained to me why a baker’s dozen is 13 instead of 12 and I tried to care and pretend I wasn’t looking at his bulge whilst deciding if I was going to have sex with him that night or keep him waiting for another week as planned. We sat on my sofa, I smiled at him and told him to kiss me, so he did his usual move, remember, the one I told you about, the one that Louise used to do too that would instantly ripple goosebumps down my skin, the one where he slides his left hand up my left thigh while cupping his right hand on my cheek, pushing up the grain of my stubble before firmly kissing my lips. As our tongues met and rolled over and under each other like wrestlers, I tasted garlic on Alex’s, sorry, Alexander’s breath, which was weird as I specifically didn’t put garlic in our salad as I thought he didn’t like it. That got me thinking of Louise, remember how I told you her bolognese would always have four garlic bulbs, not cloves, bulbs, no matter if she was cooking for two or 12 people, and it was at that point my goldfish starting crying and crying. Really loudly, too, like a human. Well obviously this quite clearly freaked Alexander out and he made some excuse about running a spinning class in the morning and that he should get an early night, little did he know that after tasting that garlic all he was going to be getting was an early night to be honest, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t disappointed that he left. I stared at my goldfish for hours as it wailed and screeched in pure agony. I was helpless. Seriously, what on Earth could I do? I couldn’t exactly leave it as it would only get worse so I had to call in sick from work, it’s not like I could tell the truth so I made up some excuse, but my boss was pretty nice about it, then I basically curled up on the sofa with a duvet, I thought I shouldn’t go too far, and I just looked at it and thought about what I should do. It’s been six days since my goldfish started crying, and I still don’t know what to do. It’s the day before I’ve always planned to have sex with Alexander, and the tears are still flowing from the little guy while his screams are getting so hoarse and severely depressing. Alexander text me earlier about tomorrow and whether I still want him to come round for the evening and the only real option I’ve got is to say no. Or kill my goldfish once and for all.

© Carl Burkitt 2013

The other day, I tried to see if the urban legend of Voller the Fashion Goblin was real.

Like the supposed hundreds of people before me, I settled myself in front of my bathroom mirror and stared at my reflection.

I looked left and right, then whispered: “Style and fashion, style and fashion.” I paused, looked deep into my own eyes, took a breath and said for the third and final time: “Style and fashion.”

I closed my eyes and winced. Silence. I looked around the room. Nothing. ‘Ha,’ I thought, my cheeks going rosy. ‘I knew the guys at work were winding me up.’

I shook my head and raised my eyebrows, chuckling. As I turned to leave the room a puff of smoke filled the air, followed by a loud popping sound.

“Jesus!” I yelped. “The guys were right!”

Like the legend had predicted, before me in the smoke stood a beautiful woman in her mid twenties. She had the complexion, cheekbones and dress sense best suited to the pages of Vogue, but, as it turned out, the mouth of a disgruntled, cockney bricklayer.

“What the fack you lookin’ at, mug?” She said.

“Oh, um, are you?-” I tried.

“Yeah, yeah I’m fackin’ Voller the fackin’ Fashion Goblin. What the fack do you want?”

“Um, nothing, I was just-”

“Let me fackin’ guess. You were just tryin’ to see if repeatin’ that fackin’ phrase in the mirror would fackin’ get me here?”

I nodded, gingerly.

“You soppy prick, I was knee deep in chicken and chips. The fackers will be cold by the time I get back.”

I looked at the ground.

“Don’t you go cryin’ on me, you tart. Let’s not make this a completely useless fackin’ trip. I can still work my magic.”

Voller looked me up and down, then flicked a toggle on my hoodie with one of her well kept fingernails.

“Your clobber’s lookin’ ropey. Grey top over a grey T-shirt? You slag. Saps the colour right out of your fackin’ cheeks. And don’t even get me started on those fackin’ brown chords with ‘oles in the fackin’ knees. Who fackin’ told you to let your hair grow that fackin’ long as well? Your curls make you look like Ronald fackin’ McDonald. And look at that fackin’ bum fluff on your fackin’ chin! Let’s sort your life out, boy.”

Before I had the chance to tell Voller I didn’t need her help, she clicked her fingers and I was naked.

After a little snigger, each click placed a new item of clothing on me.

Click.

David Beckham H&M brief boxers.

Click.

Navy blue Paul Smith socks.

Click.

Swatch watch.

Click.

Charcoal grey trousers.

Click.

A round neck navy blue, woollen jumper with incredibly faint specks of orange.

Click.

Some slightly pointed dark brown shoes.

Click.

Earthy brown duffel coat.

Click.

Hair trim and a face shave down to stubble.

“Right then,” said Voller, slapping my bum. “See you later, silly bollocks.” And with that, she disappeared.

I stared in the mirror, a tad windswept and entirely bemused. ‘What on Earth just happened?’ I thought. My nerves were shaken and my self-esteem shot to pieces. But I did look good.

To tell the truth, I’m still not entirely certain what went on that day. But strangely, and against my better judgement, I wouldn’t actually mind seeing Voller again soon.

© Carl Burkitt 2013