“You are not getting carbonara.”
He blinks.
Unmoved.
I take another bite.
Heath shoves his face dramatically into the food bowl as if to indicate he is settling for lesser cuisine under protest.
“Martyr.”
He ignores me and starts munching.
I pull my phone over with one hand.
This has become routine now.
Dinner for me.
Rodent surveillance for the internet.
I angle the camera and take a picture of Heath half inside the bowl, cheeks stuffed.
Then post it to @hamsteroftheheath with the caption:
Demanding Michelin standards in a cost-of-living crisis.
I snort at my own stupidity and set the phone down.
The account, against all reason, has become a thing.
Entirely Callum’s fault.
Three days ago, after accepting the follow request, he had shared the profile to every group chat containing anyone we know with the message:
Mark has lost his mind. Please monitor.
Tom had followed immediately.
Then Daniel.
Then Mum, who still hasn’t grasped how Instagram works but leaves comments consisting entirely of red hearts.
By the end of the first evening, Callum’s wider circle had piled in too, mostly to take the piss.
Jasper.
Milo.
A few old army mates.
Two of Callum’s clients, inexplicably.
And then strangers, because the internet will attach itself to any anxious mammal in headwear if presented with enough consistency.
Heath now has just over four thousand followers.
I have no explanation for this.
