“It was a bright, cold day in April and the clock was striking thirteen!”

It must be 6.30am.

Bob’s mother had burst into his bedroom heralding her usual wake-up call: a warning from Orwell’s 1984 (the year of his birth, as was the woman’s logic and sense of humour) to seize day lest it be seized from him.

Bob opened his eyes a crack and looked around the grey room. Dull light flowed in through his window, illuminating dated décor and adolescent furnishings. He took a deep breath of thick air, pregnant with a night’s worth of young, male hormones, and screamed “It’s fucking AUGUST!”. Then he rolled over, violently wrapping his doona around him like a worn, cotton chrysalis. His mother would be back in 10 minutes, having forged a snooze alarm from the weather forecast or a news headline. He’d get up then.

Much to his trepidation, however, Bob wasn’t reawakened by another banal pronouncement, but with the welcome aroma of steaming coffee, accompanied by his mother’s soothing coo.

“Did you want your coffee now Bobby? Time to get up!”

The words dripped over him like a warm stream of caramel, and Bob began to stir.

He twitched his muscles, eyes still closed, then, before he even managed to think about it, let out a gargantuan yawn, limbs stretching out in all directions as if pulled by an invisible rack. Blood began to surge, senses emerged from stasis and Bob felt his bladder bursting at the seams with a rush of liquid. He willed away the discomfort, preferring instead to focus on the tantalising aroma of liquid caffeine. The toilet could wait ’til the brain fog had lifted.

Bob slowly opened his eyes to the familiar scene of his bedroom, and was surprised to see his mother perched on the side of his bed, coffee and newspaper in hand, smiling broadly.

“What time is it?” asked the groggy man-child, rubbing his right eye with the rough stub of his palm. He was suspicious, slightly alarmed, as light had now well and truly permeated the garden outside his room.

The sun was shining overhead, birds were singing and traffic was purring down the street.

“Mum?” he pressed.

“10am” she replied with a grin.

“10am?! FUCK!” Bob screamed, a bolt of dread shooting through is body and forcing him to sit up in bed. “Why didn’t you tell me?! I’m supposed to be at work!!”

His mother giggled, and shifted the folded newspaper beneath the steaming mug of coffee to catch any wayward drips. “Calm down, you’ll spill your coffee” she scolded gleefully. Then, after one last, light dab on the base of the mug, she handed him the paper.

Bobby scanned the front page, instinctively smoothing the soggy ripples that dotted its lead story, and began to read. A moment passed, then his mother chimed in once more.

“I don’t think you’ll need to go to work today” She cackled with excitement, “He’s dead!”

Bobby looked up at her, and their eyes met in wonderment.