Illustration by Börkur Sigurbjörnsson
I stacked plastic cups into a house-of-cards-like structure, punctured one cup with a hole punch, chained a few rubber bands together, threaded them through the holes and strapped the cup on my head like a cowboy hat. I looked at myself in the mirror, winked, shot my own reflection with the index finger and blew away the smoke. I was on fire.
I grabbed the rest of the rubber bands, took five steps away from the desk and started to shoot my ammunition at the stack of cups. I loved having my own private office. It was so much fun to be able to close the door and fool around when no one could see.
I had almost shot down all the cups when my play was interrupted by the intercom.
“Yes!” I said in the harsh voice I always use when I don’t want to be disturbed.
“Mr. Prime Minister,” said the intercom. “The Queen is on the line. She says it’s urgent.”
“I see,” I sighed, pausing for a moment. “Ok, I’ll take it.”