[right]2:05 PM
Friday the 1st of July[/right]

Greg’s neighbours in the apartment block had rarely ever heard so much as a peep from his flat. Today was a very slight exception to that rule as his front door closed behind him rather earlier but also slightly louder than usual, just barely qualifying as a slam. He half-threw down his messenger bag against the shoe-rack and made a beeline for the fridge, which wasn’t far in the single, smallish room of his studio. With a gentle sigh, he pulled open the fridge door and removed half a bottle of red from the dwindling collection of consumables, among which could be counted most of a tub of margarine, a couple of onions, and one solitary egg - not that he gave any of them a second thought. He pulled a large glass from the cupboard, upturned the rest of the bottle into it so that the wine nearly trickled over the brim, leaned against a counter, and began gently sipping. On an ordinary day, he would have taken a shower and got changed first, but today was no ordinary day.

He stood there for a short while in thought, quite unsure what to do with himself. Apart from any more pressing concern, Greg had never been home before gone half six in all the time he had lived in London without having a prior engagement, and simply didn’t know what to do with the newfound time he had now acquired at twenty past two. Brief salvation came when his eyes rested on the airing cupboard where he stored the vacuum cleaner and realised that he could probably clean the flat. The hoover, which was excellent and worth shelling out for, was light and lithe and glided over the faux-floorboard linoleum with ease, casually extracting the few stray bits of lint that had accrued since he had last done a clean, and, given the size of the place, didn’t use up more than ten minutes. He had already washed up his now empty glass, the only unclean item of crockery in the place and so, he supposed, a trip to the supermarket might be in order.

It was only when he picked up his bag did he remember the second most notable thing that had happened that day, and began rifling through the bag's main pocket. Had he not been so distracted at the time, he would expect his keen eye to better remember the man who had given it to him, but, as it was, the only things he could remember was that he had been wearing a suit and had pressed an envelope into his hands before melting away into the London Friday lunchtime throngs. And here it was, the envelope. The paper was thick and creamy - expensive. Greg neatly tore it open from one end of the flap to the other, removed the letter and sat on the futon to read:

[indent][i]Congratulations Gregory Round,

You have been selected for the Vorace Lalune Award for Excellence. You will find your plane ticket inside this envelope, as well as a credit card for you to pay for any expenses you may need to cover. The pin number for the card is 1018. Use it as needed.

Your boss has already been informed of your sudden departure and your spot at work will be held for you during your week vacation.

Au revoir,

Agatha Lalune[/i][/indent]

A brief examination of the envelope revealed the aforementioned card, classy in black but with no details whatsoever upon it, a plane ticket for the coming Monday from Heathrow, and, more surprising still, a passport for him, the gold letters on the newly-pressed maroon covering glinting gently in the light. The photograph had been taken from his work’s ID badge, he noted, which was odd, because, whatever the award was, it could be safely assumed that it hadn’t come from work. With the slightest of frowns, he replaced the envelope’s contents and leaned back on the foldout sofa the stillness of his body offset by the frantic drumming of his left hand on his knee.