Flame-haired Simon stands and his hair burns like a thousand flaming carrots in the orange twilight of twin suns, or so he likes to think. As he passes by, people turn away to protect their eyes from the awesome, ginger glow, lest their retinas be vaporised by the magical sight of the most terrible orange in the universe. Or, at least, this is what Simon tells himself.
“They can’t stand my awesomeness!” he growls at the mirror in the privacy of his bedroom, alone with the dying memory of public outrage and all the fools turning away as he was strutting his stuff along the High Street. “I’ll show them!” he vows, shaking a fist, and then rushes for the bedroom door, brushing his tears away as he stamps angrily down the stairs with the dust flying and the mice cowering in the basement.
“Slam!” shouts the front door and a passing dog flinches at the terrifying sight of approaching rage coming down the garden path. Even the flowers feel slightly wary and visibly wince as Simon sets off to meet destiny on the corner of the High Street.
“I’m here!” he squeaks awesomely once more, jumping up on a milk crate for a pedestal. “Yes I’m back with my shocking, flaming locks that you can’t bear to look at no more because you’re so jealous!” he pipes up, but no-one’s there, not even a cat. Even the pigeons aren’t there because they’re with everyone else in the pub.
“Where’s Simon?” asks the barman to the nearest chap at the bar. The man turns to face him slowly, as if time were limitless and frozen, as if filled with the tiredness of the all time and a pigeon sat on each shoulder. “Oh, he’ll be having a psychotic episode again” says this man wisely, stroking his Freudian beard before taking a long, lingering sip on his pint. “It’s going to be a long, tiring weekend for everybody.”