The armchair was the softest he’d ever sat in. The old boys weren’t so bad once you got past the fact they hadn’t seen a match since 1979. Even the incense was reminiscent of only slightly turning watermelon once it’d burned through a bit.

Brian sat upon his becushioned throne, holding court, and pointing his magic pointer every time he heard the roar of the crowd from the crackling Bakelite radio up by the stuffed porcupine in the corner. It wasn’t really magic, of course. This was all just some pastime for rich pensioners with nothing better to do, who had gathered just enough shreds of self-awareness about them to realise they couldn’t get tickets to the next Harry Potter film without being put on some sort of list. So they’d made up their own version, safe in the comfort of this damp old clubhouse at least a hundred metres from the nearest child.

Maybe, Brian thought, this was one of those immersive care homes like the ones he’d heard about in Holland. Maybe there were peep holes in the paintings, through which a whole team of nurses in white coats were watching them from next door right now. They probably even had clipboards and did a serious nod every couple of minutes. Brian got out his phone to add a reminder to check the address and see if this counted towards his community service he still owed for that time he pissed against that lighty-up sculpture after he’d spent ten minutes deciding whether it was an alien toilet. He had decided incorrectly.

He nodded and smiled in all the right places, and once he’d gained a bit of confidence, he even started making some decisions. These weren’t decisions that mattered, like whether or not a town centre - rejuvenating piece of modern art was a weird urinal. These were decisions like whether or not the Order of the All-Seeing Ankle was to be trusted now that they had a monopoly on the Stools of the Seventh Ascension, and whether a new souldust accumulator could be funded by quietly cutting Geoff’s special dogs down to ten and a half inches at the next fair at Heartsbane Park.

Brian really hoped this was an immersive care home.

Just as he had signed an elaborate scroll some old dear had put together in a community craft class, decreeing that the Hunter’s Inn was to be assaulted at midnight with all available battle wizards, and some tart called Mrs. Bradley brought in for questioning and mandatory finger donation, Brian heard the low, deep growl of an engine just outside. He jumped up, knocking scalding tea onto a carpet it was impossible to ruin, and clawed at the net curtains. He had his doubts about exactly what sort of dirty the lasses who could allow themselves to be attracted to his foil-lined bottle of lavender and cabbages would be, but that was a real fuck-off Bentley at the kerb, all right. Things got serious when the bearded man puffed in and handed him the keys. Brian suddenly started wondering if such freely given gifts would hold up in court, even in what could now only be an immersive lunatic asylum.

He did his best to scowl at the keys. “Thanks, mate, but I really wanted my Lamborghini tonight,” he said crossly.

“Yes, Feared Father,” the valet panted, and laboured off towards the front door.

Brian’s eyes bulged. He regarded his eternal case longingly. Neverending or not, one can couldn’t do any harm. He might need it. And then, he actually had an excuse for the startling, full-colour visions of men and places and vile, evil forms of things he did not wish to name that came drifting into his head with the gusts of incense.

His eyes also fell on his untouched plate, perched on the bursting arm of his chair. The only disappointment in all this was the grub. He’d been promised a party, but what he’d got was a cup of Tetley’s with half a gallon of milk in it, and a finger-wide scraping of dry fruitcake. It was exactly what he should have been expecting, and the only sane thing that had happened today.

But something more sensible was coming. Something proper. As he lowered himself back to his seat, his phone buzzed once in his pocket. He smiled, and threw the bit of cake to the mewling cat nestled by his feet.