LEAKER

I saw him. It could have been anyone. In a nightgown case. Beware. Four power cuts in one month. Doesn't that strike you as strange? Don't know. Cover your eyes. Beware. They say a candle. Candleman. This Halloween, whatever you do, don't rent.

Candleman. He's coming. Get the lights on. I don't know what he wants. Get the lights on. Elizabeth Dennis Mitchell, Ron Fong, and introducing Anthony P. Vetch as the Candleman in... Candleman. Candleman. Meet David. Nice to meet you. You think you're funny, don't you? He's just your average teenager. Hey, you should come round. He likes music. Junk food. Girls. Arctic roll. No, thanks. There's just one problem with David. What's that? It's just my Atari 2600. He's a gamer.

What do you think? I've never seen anything like it. The colours, the sounds. Keep playing. What's the rectangle mean? You talking about the green rectangle or the red rectangle? Or the white rectangle or the black rectangle? The red rectangle. Believe it or not, that rectangle is the devil. Death Maze. You'll never escape the first level. They call them video games. The human mind was never designed to handle this level of stimulation. The video game, it's playing him.

I still haven't worked out with the rules up. And you never will. First, the devil tried the Ouija board. Then, it tried Dungeons and Dragons. Now. In 1982, evil has finally found the perfect medium, the Atari 2600. Oh, no. What? The circle is flashing. Come face to face with Satan. Rendered. in up to eight unique colors. Haven't you worked it out yet, David? You're still in the game. No!

Death Maze. picture an elegant woman climbing from the cockpit satin evening dress perfectly oiled hair exquisite unconventional makeup diamond earrings diamond ring diamond crusted watch a second diamond eerie the sun setting in the west probably as she climbs from the cockpit diamond shoes she elegantly disembarks from the cockpit she's out of the cockpit now and now now she's signaling with a hand to a nearby butler black shoes a butler

waiting by a limousine black jacket waiting to take her somewhere somewhere somewhere black trousers tailored he bows deferentially to the woman bowler hat also black and the woman smiles a knowing smile white smile impeccable dentistry the woman now approaching the limousine moving with purpose practically gliding the butler holds open the door so it The woman now enters the limousine. Graceful. Fluid. Inside the car. An ice bucket. Cold. Containing.

A bottle of finest champagne Rochefort collection 1928 Frosted Meriwether glass Mirrored plate Engraved She lifts the bottle Strong arms Pours a glass Slowly Daintily Sips Delicately Smiles Happy And now the butler is back behind the wheel. Got there fast. The butler turns. His name is Anthony. Anthony.

Anthony The butler turns Anthony He turns back to look at her So flexible And all it takes All it takes takes is one look so intuitive and he knows anthony he knows exactly exactly exactly where she wants to go exactly where she wants to go. And that's... 6pm to midnight.

My name is Ross Sutherland. Before the feature presentation, I just want to say thank you for buying this VHS tape and supporting the industry. Video piracy is a crime. Some people might call it theft. technically it's not actually theft it's called piracy piracy is its own law but it is pretty much exactly the same as stealing for example you wouldn't steal a car would you what about

If you had a device that created an identical duplicate car so that you could have a car and the original owner would still also have their car, would you do it then? I don't think you would. Alternatively, you can help support imaginary advice by making a one-off donation via buymeacoffee.com forward slash imaginary advice or you can join my Patreon via patreon.com.

forward slash Ross G Sutherland. A monthly donation of $5 grants you access to my separate bonus podcast series where every month I pitch an idea for a high concept horror film. which brings me back to the feature presentation perhaps due to the excessive amount of writing about horror films that i've been doing over the summer today's main story is also horror of sorts so let me give you a quick content warning here this story contains a dead body and that's it thanks for listening my name

It's Ross Sutherland. Bon appétit.

of my building died exactly when she died I'm not sure it wasn't until some time after the event that I found out about it. If you're not looking out for these things, you tend not to notice them. You know? Somebody disappears one day. I mean, it could take months. Years even, before you think. Oh yeah, whatever happened to her? Or him. The world is a hectic place. It's like being in a tiny room with...

Thousands of TVs all playing at once. So, I mean, even when something truly awful happens, it can take a long time for it to... filters through. I only saw her in the lift a handful of times. When I first moved into the building, I was mostly living off my DJ work, so I was usually out late. The few times I saw her in the lift... She was wearing a leather jacket. I remember that. I think she was maybe 60 years old. I'm not good with ages. Found out her name later.

It was Jay Finbar. Surname, Finbar. Jay, the initial. I never heard anyone say it around the building. It wasn't written on her buzzer. I never saw any mention of her death in the local paper.

the only reason i ever found out her name is because i got it from an envelope that i stole from her flat after she died but um yeah well i'm getting ahead of myself She was alive. I never gave a second thought to that woman. Nothing unusual about that. I mean, why would I think about her? Anyway, it seems like I wasn't the only one. Turns out nobody was really thinking about her at all. Because she had been gone. A long, long time before anyone.

I was just doing the washing up one day and I looked out the window overlooking the courtyard and down below were three guys in hazmat suits. sprayed down with some kind of blue liquid and you know having not thought about that woman at all for like probably over a year I saw those guys out front who they were here for the cleaning guys had come in this fluorescent yellow truck it's hardly a conspicuous affair

was coming off the back of it and getting hauled into this little white tent they'd set up. There were some police too putting up a barrier to keep the local kids away. Shortly after the guys in hazmat suits started coming in and out of the building. Mostly sticking to the stairwell. Maybe it was more discreet. I went out to the landing to get a better look at them.

Some of them had these weird looking vacuum cleaners on their back. Other guys had chemical tanks connected to these thin little precision hoses. Not one of them acknowledged that I was even standing there. Something like this happens in your building. Shouldn't somebody knock on the other doors, you know?

come talk to the other residents and let them know what's going on. Not just because there's clearly a public health risk whenever somebody finds a leaker and the other residents could be at risk, right? Not just because of that. But also, who knows? Some of the other residents might have been friends with the deceased. Not a good friend. But a friend nonetheless. And therefore, they should be.

sensitively informed of the news right no matter how long ago the actual death happened that's immaterial we're finding out now it's news to us no matter how long ago it happened and we deserve to be treated With respect, that's all I'm saying. I should be, at the very least, acknowledged if I'm standing there on the fucking landing. Because the way it felt to me...

And I don't think I'm just being paranoid here, but I felt like I was being judged as if simply by being a resident of this building, I had failed in some way by allowing this to happen. As if... good person would have noticed the deteriorating health of their neighbor they would have called in regularly to make sure their neighbor didn't need help with any errands they could have

flagged any sudden changes in their health perhaps encouraged their increasingly frail neighbour to seek further help before it was you know too late but even failing that the very least if you're not going to be actively involved in your neighbor's well-being the very least you can do right is report the odor when the neighbor finally dies and not just pretend it isn't happening for literally over a year.

That was the vibe I was getting from these guys in the stairwell. And I, you know, I found that offensive. Yes, the building smelled bad. But in my defence, I... genuinely thought the building always smoked that way and when you live with it like I did for as long as I did after a while you do just stop noticing

Anyway, the cleanup team just walked straight past me on the landing, shuffled on by in those mad-looking spacesuits of theirs. If I went up to the next mezzanine and cranked my head back, I could... just about make out the sound of their little vacuum cleaners and hoses going, slurp, slurp, slurp, cleaning up whatever was left up there. this went on for days i tried not to think about it but it really did i mean i'm not sick in the head i don't want to think about it

What would anyone want to think about? Anyway, once they finally finished cleaning up the top floor flat. You'd expect the hazmat guys to pack up and go, wouldn't you? But, oh no. They didn't leave. Because once they'd finished cleaning up the top floor flat, then they started the cleanup on the flat. directly underneath that is how fucking bad the situation was up there that was the moment

But I really started paying attention because I knew the guy who lived in the flat directly underneath Jay Finbar. Not personally, but all. I knew him because that flat was occupied by none other than one Roland.

Maybe I just need to sing. Got no patience. I need to see you right now. I can't be waiting for something take you down. No patience. But true colours, you know it. True Colors were the runner-up band on series two of PopQuest. Not a stellar career post-PopQuest, but three number one singles. Only one was a cover. Not... bad innings for a bunch of talentless hacks. Still, there was genuinely a very brief period of time in the early noughties where members of True Colours could have

non-ironically referred to themselves as famous. Roland was the one who looked like a butt plug. That's not my personal opinion. Everybody knew it. Everybody said it. His head looked like... A novelty butt plug. I am simply voicing the public consensus here. Roland moved into my building not long after I did. Telling my friends. The Roland Banks was now living in my building. I dined out on that bit. Four years. I've made it, mate. Rub your shoulders with the rich and famous.

practically a celebrity myself these days. Roldan pops around whenever he needs some AA batteries for his flashlight. We're thick as thieves, mate. Fondue night together every Sunday. And so on and so on. Of course, I never actually said a word to him. I never spoke to anyone in my building on principle, but I had absolutely no intention of ever speaking to rolly fucking bags. Obviously I didn't watch PopQuest. Obviously that's slop for the pigs.

I'm a real music man. Hard house. Micro house. And Balearic house. That's the cutting edge. I might have retired from DJing now. But I still consider myself a bit of a musical connoisseur. manufactured pop music has always been a blight on the culture so even back in 2002 before I even knew his name I hated Roland Banks his music was fucking dreadful I'd rather listen to mice being slaughtered also

He always looked like a miserable prick in the lift. I didn't want to have anything to do with the twat. But for the purposes of comedy, you understand, for the purposes of banter, I spoke about him to others like he was my best friend.

come on cheer up or I'll send my mate Roland Banks round to sing no patience at you till blood starts geezering out your ears you know that sort of thing the way I see it Roland Banks was exactly the precise level of sad, washed up celebrity that make him funny to bring up in almost any scenario. I once even, for the purposes of comedy, you understand. I did an extended bit for my friends where I claimed I'd had a foursome with Roland Banks and the Zig and Zag puppets from The Big Breakfast.

Just to make my mates laugh, you understand. And it worked. They were pissing themselves when I did it. But it worked. To begin with, they worked. The bit went on a bit too long. But yeah, I got a lot of mileage out of this new celebrity connection of mine. Plus, there was also an unsaid truth below it all, which was, yes, I was actually living in a pretty nice flat these days as it happened, so it was also a kind of low-key self-deprecation.

way to brag about having some upmarket digs. Living in a flat like that certainly made my DJ career look like it was going a lot better than it was when really I was just burning through various

bequeathments I've inherited, but obviously I'm not going to talk about that kind of stuff with my DJ mates. Much better to just make jokes about me living the high life with Roland Banks. And of course... whenever any of my mates came over to the flat, which, you know, was rare, but if they ever did, then I'd tell them, well, if you're lucky, you might get to see him.

In the wild. Take a photo if you want. Sell it to Heat Magazine. Back in 2002. Because no one gives a flying fuck anymore. One time. And... Actually, I'm not proud of this. But... One time, when I was trying to impress my previous girlfriend, she who will not be named, I actually got a marker pen out when we were in the lift and wrote, Roland looks like a butt plug.

I wrote it on the inside of the door so he wouldn't know it was there till the door slid shut and the lift was in motion and then he'd just be stuck staring at it till it got up to his floor. I didn't write it in huge letters. It was relatively small, but absolutely at high height. So you know he would have had to read it every single time he got on his lift. And it took years before someone...

Finally got around to scrubbing it off again. I don't know why I wrote it really. I mean it's nasty behaviour. Even for me. Sometimes you just want to feel like you can make a difference. You just want to say to yourself, yeah, I wrote that, I did that. I destroyed that. That was me.

I was not in a good place in my life back then. Psychologically speaking, things in general were not really going my way. Here's something I never understood. I never got why Roland never scrubbed the graffiti off himself. Because it really wouldn't have taken that long. A bit of soapy water, just popping with a bucket and sponge. A three minute job, I reckon. But he never did. He just took it. Day after day after day. He just took it and took it and took it and took it and took it.

What kind of guy just stands in that lift looking at that graffiti and just does nothing? What is that? Not rising to the insult. Taking the high road. How does that not get to you? Is there anything left underneath if you have skin that thick? Maybe his head was just a butt plug. Just vulcanised rubber all the way down. Then, the whole Jay Finbar thing comes to light and fuck me.

It's like the whole lift thing again, but now like a million times worse. Imagine a scenario, right? Night after night, this guy, he comes home from... Whatever it is ex-pop stars do with their day, he comes home, gets into the lift where he can still clearly see the outline of the graffiti calling him a butt plug. So he looks at that for 90 seconds as he rides up to the third floor. Perfectly normal. Then...

Reaches the third floor, gets out of the lift, goes into his flat where there is a literal liquefied corpse dripping through the ceiling. Right? Anyway, he goes into his flat, probably stepping over a pool of congealed J-Fim bars, he does so, and then he makes himself a lovely dinner, watches a movie and he goes to bed, nostrils stinging with the stench of...

liquefied human remains. Every day. That was his life, not just for weeks. Month after month after month. And he never did a thing about it. I didn't know how to process that information. But I knew one thing. I knew that there was something very, very wrong with Roland Banks. Because that is not...

The behavior of a human being. I don't know what that is. But that is not a person. Not anymore. hours to clean up crew was in Roland Banks' flat. Eight hours to clean up human materials that Roland Banks had been living with side by side for the best part of a year. Roland and the human goo, they were practically fucking flatmates. For the eight hours that the clean-up crew were in his flat.

Roland was sitting in the pub across the road. Window seat. Just sat there, watching the building. It was like he had x-ray eyes or something and could watch the clean-up guys through the wall. Was he on his own? Yes. Of course he was on his own. Did he have a book with him? No, of course he didn't have a book with him. Oh yes, he had a pint in his hand. No, he barely touched it for eight hours. He just sat there and stared.

I came across Roland's stakeout. Purely by accident, I just popped out to get some fags. Nearly jumped out of my skin when I walked past and saw him sat in the window. Didn't slow down. Didn't look back up the road. I don't know if he knew my face, but I didn't want Roland to know that I knew what was going on in his flat. So I just kept moving.

when i got home got my binoculars checked the pub window again well yep sure enough there he was still sitting in the window untouched bite in his hand just staring out for eight hours that is pretty much the only time I've ever been able to properly study his face he's a handsome guy but he's also There's also just something empty about him, like a shop mannequin. There is something compelling about it that I won't deny it. You can see why he was famous. Anyway.

Eight hours in that position Eventually I heard the hazmat guys upstairs pack up and leave They pulled up their little white tent put everything back on that fluorescent truck of theirs and were gone. Through my binoculars I watched Roland then slowly rise from his stakeout position.

Cross back over from the pub. Because I have the flat directly underneath Roland, I could hear his footsteps when he finally came back inside. I heard the... of his boots as he walked from the door to the middle of the room and then that's it the footsteps stopped

the rest of the night. Anytime I thought about rylan banks after that i would immediately start to get nauseous every time i pictured that stupid head of his i felt like i was falling I got that that gravity wave pushing out from the center of my chest like I was dropping face down you know something Dark and endless. I don't know, it was weird. It was weird. Like I was back in the lift with him or something. Except, now the lift was in free fall.

I saw Roland again, shopping at the Tesco Metro up on the corner, buying sushi, no less. Tesco sushi. That was the moment. Quite instinctively, I might add, that I made the decision to follow him. I couldn't give you a proper answer as to why I followed him that day. It's just after the whole Jay Fembar situation. Roland Banks. He wasn't just a punchline anymore. He was something else now. Something abstract. I don't know.

Maybe it was nothing more than projected guilt about that woman. Yes, we were all guilty of neglect. We'd all failed her. We'd failed as human beings, but... He was the worst of all, right? We were subhuman, but he was inhuman. I can't believe I'm saying this, but now that I knew what I knew... Roland Banks genuinely scared me. Not in the way that a scary movie scares me. More like the way the concept of a black hole scares me. I just could not.

fathom what was going on inside him which was causing me to come up with all kinds of crazy ideas late at night about the dark shit he might be getting up to every day so I think I had to follow him one day just to prove to myself that all those crazy ideas of mine weren't true. Also, I suddenly had... Quite a lot of time on my hands as I'd just been discreetly let go from my telesales job for wanking in the disabled loo on my lunch break. So I guess I...

Yeah, I guess I suddenly had a window in my schedule for a project like this. So when Roland came out of Tesco and jumped on a bus, it was before I knew what I was doing. I was right there behind him. Roland took... the front seat on the top deck i tried to hang back a bit just in case he recognized me i mean he would have seen me in the lift a bunch of times i assumed he would recognize me in the street but who knows

Also, seeing as there are only nine flats accessible via that lift, he probably could have made a pretty good guess as to which of us did the graffiti about him. That hadn't bothered me in the past. But recent events had encouraged me not to really take anything about Roland Banks for granted. So yeah, that was another reason for me to keep my head down. Roland rode the bus all the way to the docks.

which was nearly the last stop I pulled my cap down over my eyes when he turned to get off which in retrospect is probably like the most conspicuous thing a person can do in that situation but yeah Maybe he noticed me, but he pretended not to, all the same. I got off the bus and followed Roland along the dock wall. It was quiet that day. Tuesday, I think, around 10am. There was pretty much no one else around. With no crowd to hide in, I decided to pull back a little further.

also crossed to the other side of the street so what I tell you now you have to take into consideration how far I was away from him but after a few minutes I saw Roland take something out his rucksack and throw it over the dock wall into the water below. He did all this without even breaking stride. It was all in one fluid movement over the head into the water. So even by the time the heavy package hit the water, he'd already distanced himself from it.

I waited until Roland was out of sight and then I pulled myself up onto the wall for a better look just in case I could see anything floating in the water. By the time I gave up looking, I'd lost him. Didn't have enough money for a taxi, so... I had to wait for the bus to take me home again. They only run every two hours, so it was pretty much a huge waste of my time, seeing as I'm none the wiser as to what he was getting rid of.

Maybe it was something incriminating. Something he didn't want to find his way back to him. I don't know. Maybe it was one of his smash hits awards.

I guess I'll never know. Finally got back to the neighbourhood around noon, popped back into Tesco's, picked myself up a pack of fun-sized Mars bars for my lunch, walked back into the building, and I was just waiting for the lift doors to close when a hand thrust itself through the gap triggering the doors to open again. Roland Banks stepped into the lift and, for one second, looked.

He said. Alright. I sat back. These were the first words we had ever said to each other. I didn't push the number for him. I don't know, even revealing that I knew that he lived on the third floor felt like, like maybe I knew too much. Anyway, he pushed the three. The door slid closed. Revealing. Of course, upon the dimpled metal, the faded outline of the words, Roland looks like a butt plug. It's still there. If you know where to look, it's still there. Anyway.

Observed it, solemnly, standing side by side as the lift began to ascend. You're in the flat below me, aren't you? said Roland. You're 2C, I'm 3C. He sounded a lot older than I expected. Yeah, I said, I'm in 2C. Roland took a pack. tic-tacs from his bomber jacket and popped one. Anything come through your ceiling? No, I said. The lift doors opened, my floor. I got out. You sure? He said. I went to say yes, but the lift had already closed.

That sadly was the one time we ever spoke. That night I was struggling to get off. Partly due to the whole thing with Roland. partly due to the whole getting fired for wanking thing, which I suspected had not remained a secret from the second I was officially out the door. So yeah, that was on my mind too. Eventually I decided I should get redressed, go up to the top floor, and I don't know, just see how the whole situation had been left up there.

The cleanup crew had left about a week ago by this point. As far as I knew, no one else had been up there. I just wanted to see for myself what was left before the flat got completely, you know. gutted and redecorated. As I suspected it was still unlocked. Most of the furniture in the main space had been removed. The flooring had been pulled up in one corner of the room, revealing the cavity beneath. There was a strange smell on everything, like a kind of...

Chemical blueberry smell. Other parts of the house were pretty much untouched. Kitchen utensils. All present and correct. The books on the upper shelves of her bookcase looked completely fine. That is until I fanned the pages of one of them, at which point the book... released a smell so acrid and foul that the instant it hit my nose I got a headache. The book had an old utility bill in it. that she was using as a bookmark and yeah that's how I learned her name

I also learned that she was a collective of vintage typewriters. Three on a shelf in the bedroom. Two more in a cabin in the living room. Two 1961 Olympia SM7s. A Remington Monarch, still in its case. Also a rusted, solid Underwood 46T. All the keys were Yiddish on that one. The last typewriter, Um. Didn't have any keys at all. It looked like it had been rescued from a fire. Something told me that this was the most important one. The wardrobe still had all her clothes in it.

Although the smell had definitely got into the fibers, so when I first opened the wardrobe door, the power of it nearly knocked me off my feet. My photo album I found on top of the wardrobe. worked out that Jay Finbar was likely the youngest of four daughters. It was quite a big age gap between her and her siblings. There were photos of the girls all together in the Swiss Alps. Three teens holding up a baby in a woolly hat. I wondered what happened to the others. In one of her drawers.

I found an old oversized blue t-shirt that said British Telecom. It's good to talk. finally got to me. I found some unusual things in a spice rack. As of a tither, what will seed? Mugwort. Yarrow. There were several ornaments that looked like the kinds of things you display in your house to get guests to ask your questions. You know? Oh, this little guy. I picked him up in a market in, insert the name of a place I've never heard of, in some country I never knew existed.

No, I never will. I never saw Roland in the lift ever again after that. He never officially moved out of the building. The flat above me was still his, but... It was clear he was sleeping somewhere else now. It's interesting to me that he kept it. The flat, I mean. Somebody else in that situation might try to be shot at that place as quickly as possible, but for whatever reason, he couldn't seem to part with it.

About six months after he moved out, I saw in a magazine that True Colors had reformed and were planning a big concert tour the following year. I had a new girlfriend by that point.

She was a croupier at the casino I frequented, and we got to know each other that way. I was initially planning to manipulate her into some kind of scam, but... after probing her for information for a while i decided that my scam idea probably wasn't going to work and i abandoned that and basically we just became like a thing

So anyway, she was around one night and saw the article about True Colours at my house. I'd kept the magazine for some reason. And she said that she wanted us to go see them when the tour came to the city. Turns out she... Literally knows all the words to no patience. I said to her, why would you like true colours? You're too young to even remember them the first time round. You're not even getting the nostalgia factor. But apparently that...

That didn't matter to her. Apparently she just liked the song for what it was. No patience, she sang. I need to see you right now. Can't be waiting. My heart can't take it now. It's a bit like you, isn't it? she said. That's how you get whenever I don't message you back within 20 seconds of you sending me a message. It's practically a song about you. Right, I said. You like the song? I do like the song. She said, I do like it. What can I say? It's a classic. So anyway.

When the tickets went on sale, I booked it. It was at the footy stadium, just to give you an idea of how many people they were expecting. And they nearly filled it, too. I got the VIP tickets, so he could be... Right down the front. It wasn't cheap, but my new business venture, running a members club for crypto investors, has been going pretty gangbusters recently, so I've had a bit of money to flex. Why are you wearing that old t-shirt?

she said when we met in the pub before. Nostalgia, I said. I'm bringing it old school. I don't even know what it means, she said. It's just the logo for a telephone company, I said. This was just their slogan in the 90s. Oh my God, she said. It fucking reeks. You'll get used to it, I said. By the end of the night, you won't even notice it anymore.

So we had a few drinks and we got a taxi to the stadium. She wanted to stand dead centre right in front and I was absolutely cool with that. I don't remember the opening acts. But I've got to say, when True Colours came on, fair play to them. They gave a blinding performance. The girl loved it, and I did too, I have to say. Although I was mostly concentrating on Roland. And he I think was mostly concentrating on me.

I still don't know if he recognized my face, but I guarantee he knew the smell. Oh, he could... absolutely recognized that smell coming up from the stands beneath him. Just like me for the rest of his life, Roland was never going to forget that smell. I think my girlfriend thought Roland was looking at her. Did you see Roland? Check me out, she said after when we got home. I did, I said. What can I say? Man's got good taste. I made her a...

Tequila, but she was already crashed out on the bed by the time I came through. So I just went back to the sofa. I had both drinks to myself. Shortly after... I heard the sound of a key in a lock upstairs, followed by footsteps across the ceiling. The clump, clump, clump of his boots. I guess... Seeing as he was back in town, he decided to stay at his old place for a change. One more time, for all time's sake. He started to run a bath.

Next thing I knew, I was lying down along the sofa in the dark, my eyes closed, listening to the sounds of the water as he slowly lowered himself into the tub. The times were still running as I drifted off to sleep. In my dream the whole building was invisible. and I could see right up through all the bricks, right up to the stars. And he was there, of course, floating right above me, hidden in his tub, but there nonetheless.

and the taps were still running, and the tub was overflowing, the water cascading down upon me, pouring itself into me, filling my throat. With its secrets. So, that's the end of imaginary advice for another month. Yeah, quite a dark story this month. Would you believe the origins of this episode was me? Trying to do my riff on the Alan Bennett monologue series Talking Heads. If you know the Talking Heads series, then you'll know.

just how wide of the mark i landed uh but no the talking heads plan did not necessarily pan out as i was expecting and i ended up with a extremely gross story called Lika, well, I hope you liked it. If like is the right word. Next month, I'm going to be ending the year with something a bit more fun, a bit more knockabout. It's a special one. And I'm really excited to get started on it. In the meantime, subscribe to my newsletter, if you will.

I post one a month basically just to let you know it's a new episode of the show out but it's the best way to stay in the loop of my work just go to www.imaginaryadvice.com and click on the mailing list tab also please support me via patreon.com forward slash Ross G Sutherland or make a one-off donation to the show via buymeyourcoffee.com forward slash imaginary advice.

I'm trying to get my support for the show up to the level of a minimum wage job. Please help me get there. If you're already a supporter, what can I say? Thank you so much. Thank you. My name is Ross Sutherland. All this time, you have been listening to imaginary advice. Goodbye.