Ivad Enuvodiss

One day in the life of Ivad Enuvodiss

(With admiring thanks to Aleksander Solzhenytsin)

Ivad Enuvodiss awoke to find a charcoal-grey sky enthusiastically pouring water onto a county receiving, but not collecting, December’s Monsoon assault. He made a mental note to put back the likely 2016 start-date of standpipes by a week or so, and then crept downstairs to organise his garbage.

The Supreme Devon Unitaria had last week decreed that plastic bottles could be recycled with most types of glass, but plastic tops must be placed with the landfill waste, and empty tins thoroughly washed priot to disposal. In turn, new definitions of edible waste allowed for some plant matter, but not the roses he noticed drooping from the old vase. Carefully emptying the spare tomato puree from its container into the special plastic food-box, Citizen Enuvodiss put the empty tube in his Mark IV metal reclamation bag before dragging the various receptacles outside, ready for collection.

He crossed the narrow lane and, checking all around for prying informers, threw the long-dead roses into the hedgerows. The safety-catch of his gun was at the ready – standard protection these days against marauding gangs of pregnant Romanians. This was risky: Romanian hate-crime carried the death penalty. The upside was that the police had long ago ceased to turn up for a single random murder.

The Officially Outsourced Recycling Vehicle arrived an hour later. Enuvodiss watched from behind a curtain as several recovering rapists took his separated waste, and then unseparated it by throwing everything into the rear of the hissing refuse lorry….as well as onto the lane. For the hundredth time, he considered ringing somebody in authority. But although the Climate Change Finder General strongly recommended such action, Piztovwivit down the lane had rung the 0870 number provided – and look what had happened to him. To be exact, nobody dared to look at (or ask about) what had happened to Piztovwivit.

Ivad half-heartedly breakfasted on reduced-flavour Muesli which might contain nuts. He made a list of the items he required from the local Harman Herbivore Hypermarket – Fair Trade Yam Crisps, Organic shallow-fried Zimbabwean Tobacco Banknotes, 14.3% cocktail meths, GM-free Veldt husks, Essence of Social Worker deodorant and so forth – before donning his bullet-proof Allover protective clothing sponsored by the Independent Police Complaints Commission. He unlocked his three-wheeler Sturmey Miliband bicycle (free with 76,000 Afghan war coupons) and set off for the designated Citizen Household Replenishment Centre.

25/12 Omnimas was not far off now, and the hypermarket was full of shoppers keen to stock up on multiculturally seasonal delights. Unable to find any fizzy water drawn from organic land, Ivad Enuvodiss approached a Non-Male Information Executive. As the NMIE turned to face him, Ivad saw two shiny Reindeer antlers bobbing about on wobbly threads above her camel mask, and burst out laughing.

Describing this intolerable outburst of involuntary humour to the Mirth Crime Police later, Enuvodiss realised he was merely digging an ever-deeper hole. So he fell back on loudly expressed admiration for the patriotic intentions behind 360 degree/24/7 cameras, and to his relief this was enough to secure a release with only nine points on his Correct Responses Licence.

Thursday was Ivad’s day at the gym. He found it hard to work up a sweat, because every piece of equipment warned him about repetitive strains, correct warming-up stages and maximum weights a rape-orientated-person should lift. After each go on the treadmill, bike, rowing machine and muscle-builder, Ivad Enufodiss sprayed the surfaces liberally with disinfectant to ensure nobody died from his perspiration. As he exited the Communal Body Exercise Space, the machine gave Ivad a ticket. It offered him congratulations for scoring 95% on the Correct Behaviour Cameras, adding that these were there purely for his own protection.

Safe at home again behind the treble-thickness Anti-Feral Crack Addict perimeter around his barn conversion, Citizen Enuvodiss munched contentedly on a Lentil Lasagne and smiled as he remembered there were only twelve days to go before Onnimas, with its forty-eight hour orgy of classic Anglican Sharia Stoning chants. Boxing Day would see the traditional rolling over the cliff of unfaithful wives and predatory men, an ecumenical celebration of the eternal marriage between misogyny and feminism.

He decided it had been a good day. There had been no incidents involving Community Unsocial Neurology Taskmasters. He hadn’t passed any women, and wondered what to do if they smiled. Nobody with a beard had screamed at him. And best of all, there’d been no calls from Kabul on his Skype Multicomm wondering if he wanted any extra wives.

Enuvodiss climbed the stairs and walked onto his floor-level Health & Safety bed. He was tired. Drifting gently towards unconsciousness, the ageing Citizen of the English Federation thought briefly of the ceremony to commemorate the seventh anniversary of the Lisbon Treaty. They’d all gone to the town square to watch it. He quite enjoyed it, but the bayonet prodding into his back was a distraction he could’ve done without.

Unitary Devon Leader Mandelson had smiled as he reminded everyone of how the final unification of the EU had rendered them free at last. Falling down into full sleep now, Ivad Enufodiss felt a brief quiver of resistance. But this was quickly followed by the reassuring approach of dreams: dreams wherein he could, at last, find some sanity and privacy.