Logging - Nick Spalding Page 0,4

small office space full of brightly dressed individuals, all sitting behind brand-new iMacs. None of them appear to be doing any work whatsoever, but this doesn’t appear to trouble Pikky in the slightest.

One of them, a woman who would probably be stunningly beautiful if it weren’t for the blue hair and three inches of thick make-up, smiles at me as I walk past. There’s pity in that smile. Pity for the old man clutching his rucksack as he walks in fear through the valley of the shadow of the eyeliner.

I try to smile back, but the ongoing assault of colour from all angles has rather discombobulated my brain, and the smile looks more like a grimace of terror.

What the hell am I doing here?

These people aren’t going to want me to design their spring campaign for them. They all have computers far better than mine – and actually understand the people they’re trying to design fashion for. What possible input could I realistically have?

Run away! my thirty-six-year-old brain insists.

Yes! Do that! my thirty-six-year-old bowels agree.

I try my best to ignore them and scuttle off behind Pikky as he walks out of the office area and into a room that makes the rest of Fluidity’s offices look positively boring.

Every wall in here is covered in fabric. A thousand different samples of a thousand different materials, all stuck to the wall . . . and just waiting for someone to give them a poke.

‘Welcome to the touch zone,’ Pikky tells me as he walks over to where two other individuals are sitting on a gigantic sofa. The sofa is also a patchwork of materials, and therefore blends into the wall behind it like an upholstery chameleon.

Sitting on the long sofa is a woman wearing a see-through shower curtain. Sitting next to her is a cowboy.

Look, I’m sorry, but I’m not making this stuff up.

That is a shower curtain she’s wearing. I can see little plastic ducks on it. The ducks are multicoloured, so they’re very on-brand for Fluidity.

The cowboy . . . is a bloody cowboy. What more do you need?

The cowboy hat is white – if that helps – and the chaps are brown leather. The waistcoat is as black as the handlebar moustache. I’m pretty sure the moustache is fake, though, as the person beneath it looks about sixteen.

‘Andy Bellows, please meet my partners in fluidity, Winery Smalls and Tex.’

No, that’s not a typo you see there. I deliberately didn’t give Fluidity a capital letter when Pikky said it, because I just know he wasn’t referring to their company name, but a state of mind that they all share. There’s fluidity going on here, all right. Fluidity between bizarre and cheerfully insane.

‘Hello, Mr Bellows,’ Winery Smalls says, inclining her head. As she does this, the shower curtain rustles.

‘Hello,’ I reply, trying not to look at her skimpy underwear beneath the shower curtain.

‘Howdy,’ Tex drawls, tipping his cowboy hat slightly. The drawl is slightly ruined by the fact it’s in a broad Lancashire accent.

‘Yes . . . and to you,’ I tell him. ‘Howdy, indeed.’

I would like nothing more at this point than to ask why they are both dressed like that.

Is it a bet? I want to enquire.

Why is her name Winery Smalls? Is that her real name? And, if so, how much did her parents enjoy alcohol?

Why is he a cowboy? Is his real name Tex? Is the moustache actually fake? Is the Lancashire accent real?

I want answers to all of these questions, but it’s quite apparent I’m not going to get them, because Pikky, having made the introductions, doesn’t look like he intends to follow them up with any kind of explanation.

‘So, Andy, we have a smart screen at the end of the room. You’ll find it underneath that large square of hessian,’ he tells me. ‘You’ll just need to Bluetooth it to your iPad and you should be ready to go, as we agreed.’

‘Oh . . . OK,’ I say, still unable to quite get my head around the shower curtain and cowboy hat.

‘Please feel free to run your hand across the wall on your way,’ Winery Smalls tells me. ‘The tactile sensation should calm your second soul.’

Second soul?

I’m not entirely sure I have a first one, and now this shower-curtain-clad woman is telling me I have a second one?

There’s a part of me that is starting to think this entire thing is either a massive wind-up, or a fever dream brought on by too much Candy