Are the trucks going to crush us?, that's what I ask myself as I'm channelled through the campus, I tell W. Are the diggers and cement mixers going to grind us into the earth?
Sometimes I want to pre-empt the destruction, I tell W. I want to lie my head beneath a caterpillar track. Want it to burst like a melon. Because my head aches, I tell W. My head throbs ... And that's what the machines want, I sometimes think: revenge on my head.
I have nightmares of regeneration, I tell W. Nightmares of being called in, of my benefits being docked. But I work, I tell W., I'm not on benefits. I have nightmares of summonses being posted through my letterbox, of schemes to get the long term sick back to work. But I'm not one of the long term sick, I tell W.
I have nightmares of being made to wait in an open plan office, ticket in my hand, waiting for my appointment with a Case Worker. I have nightmares of having my needs reassessed. But I don't have any needs, I tell W. I'm fine; I don't need reassesment.
I have nightmares of signing Agreements, of presenting myself to be retrained. Reskilled! I have nightmares about flipcharts and group work. But I don't have to sign any Agreements; I have a job; I don't need to be retrained.
I have a job: but for how much longer?, I say to W. How long will be before they come to me? Because they are coming for me, I tell him, in their great trucks and machines. And so I might as well my head down them, before the trucks and machines, and let my head burst like a melon.
