The man was in his pyjamas when he went out to the bin one night, slipped on a banana peel and hit his head, hard.
He found himself in a mysterious void. He couldn’t see the ground, but something was holding him up. In the distance there was a light. Uh oh, he thought to himself.
Not knowing what else to do, he shuffled towards the light.
His head hurt. That’s not supposed to happen, he thought. Well what is supposed to happen? How the hell should I know? Abandoning this fruitless inner monologue, the man shuffled towards the light.
There were no choirs, or winged beings with harps, or any music for that matter, just a dull, vaguely industrial hum.
The distant light turned out to be a faulty neon light over a little booth with a glass window, just sitting there in the void. Inside the booth was a small and ancient clerk, who could barely see over the counter.
‘Next!’ said the clerk, without looking at him.
‘Um,’ said the man.
‘Next!’
There was no one else around. The man went up to the counter.
The clerk looked at him, bored beyond measure. ‘ID?’
Taken aback, the man felt through the pockets of his pyjamas. There was nothing there except an old apple core and a tissue. ‘Can you tell me what’s happening?’
‘Have you got any ID or not?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Shaking his head, the clerk gestured to the man to hold his hand up.
Confused, the man tried to copy him.
‘On the glass!’
‘Ah right, okay.’
The man put his hand on the glass, which he suddenly realised was also a screen. The lines of his fingertips and palm emerged from his hand and redrew themselves on the glass in glowing green, ten times bigger than life.
Surprised, the man stepped back as the lines of his virtual hand and finger prints resolved, spun and mirrored themselves, then stretched and transformed into lines of text. It was a list, accompanied by numbers. Mirrored, it was hard to see what the text said, but the clerk could read it.
Reading, the ancient clerk gestured at the glass, then moved his fingers to scroll the text faster and faster as he shook his head, unimpressed. The list went on for what seemed like forever.
‘What is it? asked the man.
‘The usual stuff.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘This is a list of all the things you’ve wasted time on in your life.’
‘Seriously?’
The clerk looked at him like he was three years old.
The man persisted. ‘What sort of things?’
‘Sitting at traffic lights, lying awake at night worrying, waiting for school to end, waiting for meetings to end, scrolling social media, queues, dealing with Microsoft products, the usual stuff. You do seem to have spent an extraordinary amount of time wondering about what happened to some girl called Penelope, who you saw when you were at primary school.’
‘But why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why do you want to know all this stuff?’
‘It’s my job to know.’
‘Well… why does it matter?’
‘It matters because now you have to make a decision.’
The clerk swiped the lines sideways to reveal a glowing series of numbers. ‘Nine years, eight months, three weeks, six days, fifteen hours, thirteen minutes, and six seconds.’
‘What’s that?’
The number slowly faded away.
‘That is how exactly much time you’ve wasted in your life.’
‘Seriously?’
The clerk stared at him without a trace of humour. ‘You have the opportunity to donate your wasted time to someone else, or you can have it back, as time in lieu.’
‘Who would I donate it to?’
‘That’s up to you.’
The man thought about this. He lived alone. He was an only child. His parents were dead. He didn’t know anyone well enough to know if they would appreciate an extra nine years.
‘Can I give it to someone who’s dead?’
‘Do I look like a miracle worker?’
‘Um, okay.’
The man’s head whirled. ‘I really need to think some more about this.’
‘Don’t you think you’ve wasted enough time already?’
‘Okay, okay, but tell me something. Why was thinking about Penelope a waste of time?’
‘Did you ever try to contact her, or even say hello?’
‘I guess not. I was always too shy.’
‘Well there you go then. Time’s almost up. What will it be?’
‘Um.’
‘Tick tock,’ said the clerk. ‘I don’t have all day.’
‘I need more time!’
‘Rightio then,’ said the clerk. ‘Try not to waste it. Next!’
He pressed a button and a hole opened up under the man at the counter.
Screaming, he fell through the void, only to find himself in the back of an ambulance, still wearing his pyjamas. He could hear the siren as it raced through the streets. A penlight was in his eyes, then flicked off as he blinked.
A female paramedic was holding his head and looking into his eyes, concerned. ‘Are you with us, mate?’
The man saw her name tag. Penelope.
For four decades The Echo has printed the stories some people loved, some people hated, and some pretended not to read. If you want us to keep telling the truth, the real truth, not the sugar-coated version. We’ll need your support to keep the presses rolling. 
