kafka & cheese
When Ziggy Gelman awoke one morning after troubled dreams, he found himself transformed into a giant cheeseman in his bed. Given the average size of a block or wheel of cheese, this size was not altogether dissimilar from his human size. The differences, instead, were the mouldy white hue his skin had taken on, a general oozing sensation from each and every one of his extremities and perhaps most disturbingly, the overwhelming inertness of his present situation. Cheese, Ziggy noted, had never really seemed to be one of the most mobile dairy goods, but still, stranger things had happened than cheese hopping about the place.
Indeed this might be one of those stranger things, Ziggy chortled mildly to himself. Or so he once would have called the act of making a slightly humorous remark and guffawing somewhat to himself: present circumstance called for a complete overhaul of most human behavioural - and, he supposed, social - norms.
Ziggy wasn't usually the type to labour over his morning routine. As a travelling traffic and incidental roadworks sign inspector he was required to arrive promptly at the office at seven o'clock each morning to collect a map of the day's scheduled inspections. This occupation, though he had been proud to call it his own for the past five years, had by no means elevated him to a state of financial security. Much to his continued chagrin, Ziggy still resided in his childhood home with his parents and sister. He imagined that by now all three of them would be downstairs around the breakfast table: his father presiding over the morning's papers, his mother and sister hovering timidly over the tea and toast. Ziggy was pleased to note that the cheeseman transformation hadn't addled his infamously vivid imagination - one of his few virtues, he admitted to himself with his other virtues, humility and honesty; he felt proud to have chosen that particular word to describe his father, who indeed was well known in their part of the town for presiding over just about everything he ever came into contact with. Ziggy, at that moment, realised how truly one-dimensional his father was.
Indeed this might be one of those stranger things, Ziggy chortled mildly to himself. Or so he once would have called the act of making a slightly humorous remark and guffawing somewhat to himself: present circumstance called for a complete overhaul of most human behavioural - and, he supposed, social - norms.
Ziggy wasn't usually the type to labour over his morning routine. As a travelling traffic and incidental roadworks sign inspector he was required to arrive promptly at the office at seven o'clock each morning to collect a map of the day's scheduled inspections. This occupation, though he had been proud to call it his own for the past five years, had by no means elevated him to a state of financial security. Much to his continued chagrin, Ziggy still resided in his childhood home with his parents and sister. He imagined that by now all three of them would be downstairs around the breakfast table: his father presiding over the morning's papers, his mother and sister hovering timidly over the tea and toast. Ziggy was pleased to note that the cheeseman transformation hadn't addled his infamously vivid imagination - one of his few virtues, he admitted to himself with his other virtues, humility and honesty; he felt proud to have chosen that particular word to describe his father, who indeed was well known in their part of the town for presiding over just about everything he ever came into contact with. Ziggy, at that moment, realised how truly one-dimensional his father was.