A crimson silk dressing gown that keeps falling open inappropriately, my bowler hat at a rakish angle, a long cigarette holder with a colourful cheroot dangling precariously and kinked in the middle, boots up to my thighs, mouth and beard smeared grotesquely with bright red lipstick like a gaping wound, and – a final flourish to my own uniquely personalized male interpretation of the classic scene – a limp broken-necked hare under each arm. Then, without warning I straddle a backwards-facing chair to complete my channelling of Sally Bowles. Apparently though, the Board were expecting a speech on projected profit margins. “But this is better,” I explained to the police.
Tim Goldstone has roamed widely and currently lives in Wales. Published internationally, including in 11 Mag Berlin, Anti-Heroin Chic, Flash Fiction Magazine, The Cafe Irreal, The Offing, 101 Words, Microfiction Monday, Veil: Journal of Darker Musings, The Mechanics’ Institute Review Anthology. His prose sequence was read on stage at The Hay Festival. Script-writing credits for TV, radio, theatre. Twitter @muddygold