AKA James Franco

The morning started like any other. A yawn, a roll over, a deep sigh and a butt-scratch. He reached for his smartphone, checked the time and scrolled through his newsfeeds. After the 17th update about Miley Cyrus he put it back down on the bedside table. He was late, he should hurry up

Grapefruit. He would have grapefruit for breakfast. It made him feel healthy and reminded him of better days, days before the dreadful Cape Town winter took away his summer body. He had been invited to Ultimate Frisbee a few months ago, those guys and girls get pretty fit, perhaps he should have gone

He gathered his wares for the day: suede wallet, smartphone, backpack, water bottle and K-Way jacket. Anyone would think he was going hiking, but alas, it was a Tuesday. He needed a pee, quite badly, but it would have to wait. He hustled out the front door, shut it with purpose and spun around to open the gate. Then he realised his error. Keys. For the love of God, they are inside. There he was, almost like James Franco in 127 Hours: Stuck between the security gate and a hard place.