My Life Movie

So I’m wary of being in public since the prostitutes were killed.

It’s not that I’m a prostitute, I’d be out of the price range of most people, nor do I expect to be killed any time soon. If I was going to be murdered I would have been years ago.

No, my fear is that the last thing the world will see of me, unless someone posts my autopsy photos on the internet, will be a grainy, unattractive CCTV image.

“These are the last images of the victim shopping in the Bristol Galleries, stuffing his face with a triple cheese and bacon burger. Notice the size of his mouth? Reports suggest this was the reason for his kidnapping.”

Nowadays I refuse to litter, accidentally bang into people on the street or urinate in alleyways, in case someone adds my last act to my epitath.

“In loving memory of Simon Hembra. Died cutting line at the post office.”

Daily subjection to ten minutes of captured CCTV footage could be a brilliant way to lower the crime rate.

Or at the very least would be better than Hollyoaks