“How did the exams go?” he asks, a slight stutter in his voice betraying his excited, unvoiced line of questioning: ‘Are you leaving us?’

You try, unconvincingly, to say that they went okay – not that you could be sure, yet – and list all the work that you’ve done; try and prove that you’re not a waster, even though you yourself remain unconvinced.

As he speaks, he pulls you down, and you can almost feel his outstretched, grasping hands on you, as he teases you about your future career plans. You’ve grown up with this national aversion to success, so it shouldn’t be a surprise. But it still ruffles your feathers, makes you imagine the unimaginable: failure and a life spent working in this fucking cage.

His questions come to an end, punctuated by the emission of a deep, guttural cough, and he stands to go to the worktop, where he’ll prepare his lunch of cheap white bread and margarine.

The fifteen minutes finally draw to an end, and you stand – “See you,” “Yeah, see you” – and hurry to the shop floor.

You start to serve a customer, thoughts fleeing from the do-it-in-your-sleep routine, up and away to your dreams: a shattered storefront, bloodied faces, and flames dancing in upturned cars. Oh, for just a little chaos to eject us from this monotony! You want to slash and stab and fuck those you serve; spray their blood and lifeless, dismembered bodies over the wipe-clean white walls and vinyl floors in a sanguine sea: cleanse the world of their bovine complacency. And you do so, in your head, replaying the best bits again and again.

The barcode reader in front of you startles you, for a moment: a packet of Quavers doesn’t scan, interrupting the procession of beeps that had, until then, been in perfect synchronicity with the war drums thundering away in your thoughts. Through gritted teeth you manage an uncomfortable, red-faced smile, the group of young cattle you serve looking nervously on, as you enter the code manually.

Your Duty Manager looks a bit like a pigeon, you decide, as she waddles behind the counter to help you. She has a bad reputation among the others, but she treats you better than anyone else; or maybe you’re just more tolerant, you’re not sure. Soon, you have dispersed the queue together.

You exhale and offer a smile.

‘As the Earth spins around,’ she begins, unexpectedly and sounding flustered, ‘as the Earth spins around at 1000 miles an hour… we’re just still, aren’t we? We don’t notice it.’

You give a slight, confused nod.

‘We’re stuck in here, in this man-made machine, following the strict rules of those above us. But it doesn’t have to be like this.’

‘What do you mean?’ you ask

‘We don’t have to stay. We’re different, you and I. That is to say: different from the sheep and the cattle that surround us. We should be above them.’

You look nervous.

‘I know your secret,’ she starts, ‘I’m just like you.’

She ignores the customers that have now formed at her till and clumsily lifts up her shirt, unhooking her straining bra strap to reveal a small cluster of dark feathers that flick wildly under her uniform.

You nod, and walk out from behind the counter, to the door.

‘Come with me.’ You say, as you turn back.

‘No,’ she says, ‘my wings are too old. But it’s not too late for you.’

You stride out, ripping the shirt from your back. In an ejaculation of feathers, your wings reveal their full span, horrifying some punters outside, idly on their way to the supermarket.

It takes one leap for you to be airborne: and it isn’t long before you’re in the atmosphere, going 1000 miles an hour, up and away with your dreams.