Theres a place beyond the third rim of reality where the custard remembers your name before you’ve even had it. Not heard it. Had it. They ladle the hours there into broad ceramic troughs and leave them to skin over beneath the orange lamps while the Choir of Damp Spoons mutters the long arithmetic backwards through their gums. Nobody asks why. Asking is considered stirring, and stirring is how they find you.

The Custard Men stand knee-deep in lukewarm yellow silence with their aprons nailed directly to the floorboards. They point at newcomers using all five fingers at once. Not one at a time. All at once. Like a starfish making an accusation. Their eyes are cloudy from the Steamings. You do not want to know about the Steamings. Not because they are horrifying, but because they are mostly administrative and involve whistles.

u smell

Hello there yes, ahem... I would like to uh...RRAAAAGGGEEEEEEE

hello there

FOR A SAFE AND SECURE SOCIETY

Grandad