This is called reading

Dear compatriot, after the last 'stack' some of you younger Gen-Z-types mentioned that you had trouble getting through 'all the words piled up together without any emojis or GIFs.'

Looking at these words ‘piled up together’ is called ‘reading.’ It’s the source of 92% of knowledge in the world, so you might want to practise.

Nonetheless, those of you who know me well, know that I’m not about judgement, but all about safe spaces; therefore, I will accommodate you Gen Z. In this edition I’ll give you a piece of flash fiction. Flash fiction is just a fancy term for a really, really, really short story. (We writers like to use fancy terms cause it makes us feel superior, something our bank balances don’t achieve). So, knuckle down, nose to the grindstone and focus. It’s only 458 words. Think of it as a long WhatsApp message from your girlfriend.

The Smoking Room

‘Gotta light?’ said the janitor to the only other person in the room—a weather-worn old man.
	The television studio had built the smoking room when the prohibitions started. Initially, it had been so packed you could barely see through the blue smog—a veritable gas chamber—but over the years, as more and more quitters quit, it had emptied out. These days, the janitor mostly had the place to himself. 
	The old man looked up from his phone, ‘Certainly,’ he said, handing over a well-used Ziggo.
	‘Thanks,’ said the janitor, lighting up and sucking deep on the cig till the end glowed red. ‘You a Brit?’
	‘Guilty,’ said the old man.
	‘Here for work?’	
	‘You could say that.’
	‘You look familiar.’
	‘I’ve got one of those faces,’ the man said, not batting an eyelid. He pulled up his skinny jeans to reveal expensive sneakers.
	The janitor looked his smoking companion over. He was neat and clean but pencil-thin. ‘Those bastards will work you to the bone if you let ‘em, man. I mean, just look at you. You clearly saw your sixty-fifth birthday some time ago. No offence.’
	‘None taken,’ the man said with a practiced smile.
	‘And yet, here you are, still at it?’
	‘Still at it,’ said the man, visibly enjoying the last drags of his smoke.
	‘You work upstairs or down here?’
	‘Upstairs.’
	‘Well, that’s something, I guess. Me, I’m still down here, but I’ve got a plan.’
	‘That so?’
	‘Hell yes,’ the janitor said, slapping his knee. ‘I’ve got some money set aside. I’ve got an amount in mind, you know, and when I’ve got that together, I’m headed down to El Salvador. For a couple bucks a day, you can live like a rockstar down there.’ 
	‘You don’t say?’
	‘All true. Glorious place. Great food. Beautiful women, too,’ the janitor paused, taking an inventory of the old fella with a sweeping glance. ‘I guess at your age, that stuff don’t interest you no more?’
	‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. My girl’s still quite a looker.’
	‘That’s the spirit, man,’ said the janitor with a patronising grin. ‘What’s your name, anyway?’
	‘Michael,’ said the man, stubbing out his cigarette in a ceramic ashtray. ‘Friends call me Mick.’
	‘Put it there, Micky,’ said the janitor, clamping his cigarette between dried lips and sticking out a hand. 
	The old man enclosed the proffered hand slowly with long fingers, almost tendrils. A loud crack sounded as a young woman with a cell phone burst through the door, looking flustered. ‘Here you are!’ she said, puffing out her cheeks.
	The old man just smiled. 
	She pulled back her shoulders, ‘I mean,’ the woman collected herself, ‘we’re ready for you upstairs, Mr. Jagger.’

"It's all right letting yourself go, as long as you can get yourself back."

- Mick Jagger

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