Comptroler : A controller a public officer whose duty it is to examine certify accounts

Needlecraft: An article or articles created or assembled by needle and thread needlework

Spissitude: The quality or state of being thick, dense, or compact like coagulated blood.

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When the needle fell to the floor from between thick, clumsy fingers, the Comptroller reclined in his wicker chair. Drumming his fingers on the wooden armrests, a dull ache accompanied each tap, the swollen skin like a spade hitting dry ground. He put his needlecraft on his desk and let out a hearty sigh. Across a thin balsa wood frame was stretched a taut, gauze like piece of cotton. Off-white, as though stained by cigarettes, it was an impractically thin sheet of fabric. But wasn’t that the point, he wondered. Thin thread, thin needle, even thinner canvas. It was all about delicacy. Control.

At the behest of his wife, who was concerned by his ambient tumble through life, he had agreed to take up a hobby. He’d thought long and hard, half-heartedly trying one or two things that had quickly fallen to the wayside, drifting past like tumbleweed. Eventually, she had coerced him to take up needlecraft, reasoning with the weight of experience gained through a long suffering marriage, that he could enjoy it from the comfort of his seat, moving little more than his fingers. He’d agreed that that seemed as good a reason as any. The callouses that quickly developed on the tips of his fingers reminded him of tiny snail shells – tough, impenetrable whorls.

He’d been working on this current piece for hours but like most things associated with innocuous middle-management, he had done so devoid of any real purpose, and as such the black thread coiled limply like a fossilized spider web at the end of unfinished words: ‘HOME SWEE’. He’d finish it later maybe. If not, then perhaps tomorrow.

It had been another quiet day in the office, not that many people had much need the finance department at a municipal park, and being one’s own boss meant priorities could easily be shifted. Who’d notice if the grass were a little long for a week? That was what it did – grow. He yawned, stretched, and cracked his knuckles with pleasure pain, an oxymoronic action.

The sun slumped through the windows, a spissitude of golden syrup that filled the room with lazy warmth, both comforting and tiring. Tiny comets of dust flared to life in the late afternoon, then faded like mayflies. The Comptroller’s eyes half-heartedly closed of their own volition, turgidly closing before flicking open again. Beneath, two bags hung like deflated beach balls.

He felt the seductive pull of sleep draw him in, mesmerised like a snake by an elderly, bearded Indian man in strange clothes. How did they do that? Control snakes with music? His head lolled. The insides of his eyelids were burnt a dull red by the sunlight and as he slowly slipped into unconsciousness the last thing that he saw was the pulsing of strange and unnameable colours. The needle lay on the floor and glinted.