A specially commissioned piece to celebrate the debut performance of H@ndles.
You enter the building fifteen minutes early so that you look eager, your hair is unnaturally trimmed and you found that tie you own. You get in the lift and ride it to the fourth floor. When the doors open, you find yourself in a shabbier office that you thought you would.
There’s a woman sat behind the reception desk smoking, she looks like she slept there. She looks like she always sleeps there.
“Hello,” you say, “I’m here for the job, the agency sent me.”
She doesn’t reply. Instead she points her cigarette in the direction of a door and nods. You go through the doors.
Another woman greets you when you enter the room. You barely have enough time to look around and only get a brief eyeful of the place. There are several people dotted about the room at desks, typing away. No-one is talking to each other. The woman looks friendly enough though, she has the kind of hair that makes you think she’s about to describe herself as ‘crazy’.
“You must be new.”
“Yes, the agency sent me.”
“Good, good. We need as many people as you can get.”
She leads you to a terminal and you sit down.
“You’ll be Alan Sugar. Is that okay for you?”
“You know, balding guy, businessman. Just type away and if anyone asks you anything, just reply how you think he’d reply.”
You look at the screen in front of you. You are logged in to Twitter. Above you, a little sign hangs from the ceiling saying ‘@Lord_Sugar’. Alan Sugar’s face is the profile picture.
You look around for some more advice, but the woman has gone. The man sat next to you has a sign above him saying @MrDDyer. He doesn’t respond to your waving.
When you click into the box to write a new tweet, the emptiness is tantilising. You feel the infinite options ahead of you and you begin to type.