Theresa made the call.

The same one she made every evening.

"How's my gold doing?"

"Holding steady today, Mrs G,' the broker said."Up $420 for the month... are you buying or selling?"


But she was already asleep, her golden locks splayed over the monogrammed king-sized St Geneve Eiderdown pillow, dreaming of the Perth Mint.

Gold slabs rolled down the production line towards the press, which slammed down violently as each lustrous bar passed through the trigger point, embossing each one with two initials. Newly-branded gold bricks filled the infinite distance, wherever she looked, TG TG TG TG TG TG ....

Theresa made the call.

She hadn't spoken to the broker since 2018.

"How's our gold doing?"

"Down again today I'm afraid Ms G,"the broker said. "I might have a buyer at $420... are you selling?"

"At that price I ought to sue you," Theresa fumed.

"I did point out to you several years ago, Ms G, that, historically, when gold drops it falls off a cliff. You have to know when to get out as well as in,"the broker replied.


"It's all recorded in the statement of advice but feel free to contact my independent financial disputes resolution provider if you wish to pursue any complaint."

Hours later she finally dozed off, her short grey hair lost in the dank motel pillow, replaying the nightmare.

She was on a plane. A man handed her a parachute.

"It's golden," he said.

"Thanks Wayne," said Theresa.

"The name's Cliff,' he said, pushing her, 'get out now."

Theresa looked down, a lead weight in the shape of a phone was attached to her left foot, and she was falling fast into the darkness... her left foot began to ring.

She woke up screaming, 'buy Telecom' over and over and over.

The phone was ringing.