Does Balki really exist?

Will’s body ached as he rolled out of his single bed into the damp cold of the November morning. His lean frame shivered as he walked towards the wash basin in the corner, his eyes still bleary from an interrupted sleep. He splashed cold water on his face and armpits and then picked up the mouldy flannel and rubbed it around his groin in an approximation of ablutions. From beside the sink he picked up his one luxury, Assos chamois crème, and dipped his finger tips lightly in the tub before easing a gentle layer over his bony arse. He pulled on bibs shorts under his jeans, threw on an old t-shirt and hoodie, found yesterday’s socks still drying and slid them on and into his battered cycling shoes. No time, no money for breakfast. He was off.

As he rode his immaculately maintained bicycle through the quiet dark streets of a pre-rush hour London morning, he reflected that it had not always been like this. There was once a time of hope; hope that was now fading faster than his dim front light. His mind wandered to the day, some twenty years earlier in the English Faculty on Gower Street, when the head of department had spoken to him. At the time the idea of being an undercover literary adventurer has sounded glamorous. Ginsburg and Kerouac; Hemingway and Orwell. The Road to Wigan Pier had been written from the street and now the boy from Wigan was on the street conjuring up experiences for his masterwork.

In the first few years, contact from the English Department had been frequent but as each academic year passed, it had all but dried up. He was still waiting for the call, the call to write and publish but it never seemed to come.