BY STEWART SLATER

“It’s 4:30, John. Time to wake up.” the computer said in a voice designed at once to be friendly and to brook no dissent.

“The weather today will be sunny, with a peak temperature of 45°. My analysis of your sleep pattern suggests you are less than optimally rested so I would recommend a green sachet for breakfast this morning.”

John stumbled to the kitchen, rooted around for the requisite package and poured it into a glass, the addition of water producing a mixture which was more lurid than appetising.

“If you wish to be in good time for your meeting with Morgana, I suggest you head to the shower” the computer said. “If you wish to take the bus, let me know and I will reserve you a seat.”

“It’s fine, thanks. I’ll walk.”

“Very good. I will add more sun protection to the water. Enjoy your shower.”

With the sun beginning to peek over the horizon, John headed into the bathroom and instructed the shower to start. As soon as the water, heated to his desired temperature, hit his body, a clock was projected onto the door, counting down the three minutes allowed by law for his ablutions. Britain was still a rainy island, indeed, climate change had made it wetter than before, but a failure to build reservoirs had made water a scarce commodity, rationed by the government. As the clock ticked, John inwardly braced himself. Scientists had shown that the health benefits of a cold shower would save the NHS billions so for its citizen’s own good (not to mention the environmental benefits of reduced heating requirements), the government had decreed that the last 30 seconds of every shower would be at 4°C.

Relieved as he was every morning not to have had a heart attack, John returned to his bedroom and donned the bamboo tee-shirt and sarong which society’s desire for sustainability, horror at gender stereotypes and the increased temperatures had turned into a de facto national uniform.

“Are you sure you want to walk? There is a standing place available on the bus arriving at the stop in 11 minutes.” the computer informed him.

“No, it’s fine” John replied, in the voice most often used by stroppy teenagers.

“Have a nice day. Please ensure you are home by 3pm. You have a teleconsultation with the doctor about the abnormalities I detected in your urine last year.”

“No after work pint for me, then” thought John, the government’s desire to protect the electorate from hotter temperatures and stronger sun having turned his parent’s 9-5 into his 6-2. It was probably for the best though. He knew he was up for a promotion and if more than one drink a week were seen on his health record, that might be enough to tip the scales against him.

Slinging the man-bag, now de rigeur owing to sarongs’ lack of pockets, over his shoulder he walked out the door, luxuriating in the comfort of knowing that he was alone.

He was not though. Cameras scanned his every move. His watch checked his vital signs constantly, while his phone listened out for the first hint of conversation, eternally ready to record his every word – purely to avoid any misunderstandings, of course.

Glancing back at the concrete mass he had just left, he permitted himself a wry smile. For he was one of the lucky ones. A property owner. Not for him the commute from Blackpool faced by so many of his colleagues when they needed to be in the office . His flat may have been thrown up in the aftermath of the war to house the urban poor, but the lack of building in recent years had driven its value sky-high, more expensive than most country estates. Of course he was fortunate. Not only had his grandparents bought it when they had the chance, but the laws on assisted dying had changed before his parents reached the stage when they would have been forced to sell it. He missed them certainly but he was also proud. They had done the right thing. Not just for him, but for the country. He really must get the certificate the council had given him to celebrate their selflessness framed.

Heading along the embankment, he passed Tate Britain, its collection exclusively comprised of the Old British Artists whose fidelity to modern standards could not be doubted, and the headquarters of MI-5, the nation’s defence against right wing extremists, before reaching the Palace of Westminster, its façade shrouded, as it had been for over a decade, in scaffolding and tarpaulin. Nodding, as he did every day, at the statue of Harriet Harman, mother of the motherland, in Parliament Square, he headed along Rainbow Hall, the country’s traditional seat of government to Unity Square.

Crossing the road was easy. Cars had been outlawed, so the only form of transport was the bus – air quality on the tube was so poor that it had been closed for public health reasons – but even so, so many people required so many buses that their average speed was no higher than an asthmatic jog.

He permitted himself a glance at Nelson’s Column. He remembered the day of its unveiling well, capping, as it had, a week of celebrations as the nation finally shed its old skin and presented its new, modern, progressive face to the world. It had started with the Archbishop of Canterbury issuing a long apology for the historic sins of his faith and his church before placing its property at the service of the new National Belief Service, designed to offer comfort to those of all faiths and none, its practices developed after extensive consultations with representatives of all religions large and small. It was, John thought, a sign of how inclusive the country now was that celebrants wore a brooch in the shape of a colander on their gender neutral uniforms to make pastafarians feel welcome.

It was fully in keeping with the new times that the new Westminster Centre for National Well-Being had, the next day, seen its first ever joint Abdication and Coronation Service, the former King William V renouncing his throne in favour of his sister-in-law, a better representative of the new Britain than a pale stale male ever could be. By the new Queen’s side was the heir, Princess Lilibet, male primogeniture having been abandoned as the barbarous relic it was.

But to John, it was the new Queen’s unveiling of the statue of the new country’s founding father, Nelson Mandela, which was most memorable. The moment when the myths of the past were finally shed, and a new world born. Smiling at the figure who now watched over the capital like a zealous protector, he hurried towards his office.

The Department for Cultures dominated the Northern side of the square, occupying the premises of the old National Gallery in an accident so happy that one could, if one were so minded, detect the hand of a benevolent creator behind it. The government’s announcement that it was restoring and returning all works in the country’s collections to the birth country of their creators might have been, as its opponents had it, shamelessly populist, but it was popular. However, it also brought difficulties. For the remaining, British works were all, in their own way, problematic. There were pictures of horses which had not consented to be painted. There were military pictures which were unnecessarily jingoistic. There were celebrations of the Industrial Age which had wrought so much devastation.

Better just to close the whole thing down and re-purpose the building. A happy accident in a city in which construction was possible in theory but, due to the stakeholder consultations required, not in practice.

“Equality and Justice”, John called out to Mark the doorman as he attempted to hasten past.

“Equality and Justice. Did you see the match?”

John’s heart sank. The day when the government had outlawed male professional sport due to the tribalism and aggression it provoked had been a good day as far as he was concerned, his only regret being that they had not gone the whole hog and outlawed women’s games as well. Still, he had grudgingly to admit, it was popular with a certain sort of person. Jamesia Brown and Davida Henry were national heroines, their exploits in the renamed World Cup winning both the Order of British Endeavour in the recent honours list.

But, if he didn’t want to talk to Mark about football, he didn’t really want to talk to him at all. For not as sophisticated as most who worked in the Department, John always felt the doorman was never far from the sort of impolite remark which, picked up by microphones that, for everyone’s protection were ever-functioning, would have brought his cosy sinecure to an abrupt end. He didn’t particularly like him but he didn’t dislike him enough to cause him to lose his job.

“No. Missed it. Sorry, got to rush, late for a meeting.” John waved his hand behind him in a gesture which could be interpreted as friendly.

To conserve energy and promote public health, access to the lifts was restricted to those with a medical certificate, so John took the stairs to the top floor and set out along the corridor.

It was, of course, deserted. Most people worked from home most of the time.

After several minutes accompanied only by the sound of his own footsteps, John reached Morgana’s office and knocked.

“Come.”

“Equality and Justice”

“Equality and Justice. Take a seat.”

Morgana was standing by her glass and steel desk, a picture with the Queen in pride of place on the wall behind her. As always, her tee shirt and sarong were tight, and as always John felt discomfited, all too aware that all of his vital signs were being monitored. He had often wondered how he might explain an increase in his blood pressure in the presence of his shapely boss to HR – the law was clear that unwanted attraction was unwanted attraction whether the victim was aware of it or not.

As usual in such circumstances, he forced his mind to think about her clothes rather than what they covered. There were rumours that Morgana wore cotton, not bamboo. John could scarcely credit that such a senior civil servant could wear such an unsustainable fabric, with such a heavy environmental footprint, but he could not deny that she always looked impeccable.

“Good to see you. How long is it? Four months?”

“In person? Yes, probably about that.”

“OK. Well, I’m going to have to be brief. The Minister has asked me to give a reading at the Barack Day Service, and we’ve got a rehearsal in thirty minutes.”

“OK”

“The Greeks have been in touch.”

“Again?”

“Yes. Again.”

“What is it this time?”

“Same story. Some damn fool decided to build a house.”

“I thought they’d banned that.”

“They have but you know how things are.”

“So someone started to dig and found something. What is it this time?”

“A statue of Alexander the Great, apparently.”

“OK. So what do they want with us?”

“Well, they’re a bit short handed at the moment – it seems a lot of Greeks have started to build a lot of houses, so they need some help and since everyone knows about our expertise in these things, they reached out.”

“And that’s why you wanted to see me.”

“Yes, we both know you’re the best archaeologist the government has.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“Archaeology. Go over there and blow the thing up.”

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TO BE CONTINUED: Parts II to V can be found here

Stewart Slater works in Finance. He invites you to join him at his website.