He would love to have been a professor of German and English literature, the professor, who had only become a tax advisor. And whose comfortable life was in a two-room flat on Kensington Church Street. Had been. Amazing that there was a time when you could live there as a fucking tax advisor. But that didn’t go well. The tax advisor’s work had been made easier by devices. We all know the rest of the story. The tax advisor’s tension caused constant stomach problems, which led to loud abdominal noises at his weekly book club meetings. Until he no longer dared to take part in the evening events. The tax advisor found himself increasingly unable to understand the world. He was fitted with a chip, began to collect citizen points, unfortunately received miserable ratings from his neighbors, from shop assistants. He didn’t do any exercise, crossed the road without WALK signs, took hot showers, tried fruit in supermarkets before buying it, didn’t sort his rubbish; at the pub he spoke disparagingly of the government, and suddenly his problems grew worse. He stood at the entrance to the tube and wasn’t allowed through the turnstile. His funds to pay for food at the shops were frozen. His water would no longer warm up. Same for the heater. Payments were no longer made. He wasn’t the least bit surprised by the termination of the lease on his flat. In order to celebrate his departure from the world of the arts, the professor ordered himself some company.

The

EIGHT-YEAR-OLD PROSTITUTE