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It was a beautiful morning. The sunlight was streaming through the triple-glazed windows, the birds were singing, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. David Bowie sat up in his bed, yawning.
"What a beautiful morning," said David Bowie. He climbed out of bed, pulling on a diamante-studded dressing gown and smiled at the birds in the trees. The birds in the trees twittered back at him, and he could have sworn that one chirruped the opening line of 'Fashion'. David Bowie signed a pre-emptive autograph on the window for it, putting eight kisses at the end.
David Bowie walked downstairs to the kitchen, or rather took the rhinestone-covered stairlift downstairs to the kitchen (David Bowie wasn't getting any younger). He took a mug with Marc Bolan's face on it from the cupboard, and dropped in a herbal teabag (raspberry and thyme today, he decided). David Bowie glared good-naturedly at the likeness on the mug, and switched on the kettle.
While the kettle was boiling, David Bowie reached up to the top shelf for the Tesco Everyday Value cornflakes. The operative word here was 'reached', as David Bowie had shrunk somewhat with his advancing age (did you know that people begin shrinking from the age of thirty? David Bowie was well beyond thirty, he thought ruefully). Still, with a small amount of effort and some protest from his back, David Bowie acquired the cornflakes, and poured approximately fifty grams of them into a bowl modelled to resemble a vinyl record. The next logical step, of course, was to pour milk on said cornflakes, but upon opening the refrigerator, David Bowie realised that he had no milk.
He tutted. "What a pity," he said, but he spirits were lifted somewhat when he noticed that the kettle had boiled. With a small smile, and the Rolling Stones' lyrics 'You can't always get what you want, you can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find, you just might find, you get what you need, oh yeah' on his mind, David Bowie poured the steaming water into his Bolan mug. He watched with mild fascination as the colour of the teabag swirled through the water, gradually darkening it until it was all a pleasant shade of pink. David Bowie took a deep sip of his tea, looking through the French windows at Jennifer, his tortoiseshell cat, sniffing a bush suspiciously.
With no milk for his cornflakes, David Bowie placed two slices of wholemeal bread in the toaster; but not before making a mental note to later buy milk from his local The Co-Operative. While he was there, he thought, he might also buy a copy of i, the UK's only concise, quality newspaper.
As he waited for his bread to become toasted, David Bowie became vaguely and uncomfortably aware that something was missing. After a few seconds of thought, however, David Bowie realised that it was not a something but rather a someone that was missing; his lovely wife, Iman. Or, to give her full name, Iman Mohamed Abdulmajid. Luckily, David Bowie wife rarely asked to be called by her full name.
"Iman!" David Bowie called. "Iman, I've put some toast on! Are you up yet?"
No answer came. She must still be in bed, David Bowie thought wryly. He climbed the stairs - or rather, rhinestone-stair-lifted the stairs - and returned to his bedroom, expecting to see his wife still asleep in bed. However, when he looked round the door, she was disturbingly absent.
David Bowie felt a moment of panic; he couldn't remember sleeping beside his wife last night either; where could she be? But he rationalised himself, taking several deep breaths and counting to thirteen. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps Lexi knows where she is. There is, after all, no stronger bond than that between a mother and daughter.
He tiptoed along the landing to his daughter's room. "Lexi," he said, opening the door a crack, "Lexi -"
Surely not!, David Bowie thought. He swung the door open, turned the light on, scoured the room for any sign of his wife or daughter. But there was none.
Now David Bowie was immersed in full-flung panic, his pulse racing, his breathing frantic. He tore through his house at a speed belying a man of his age, searching for Iman and Lexi, desperately calling their names. From the kitchen came the reek of burnt toast and the scream of the smoke alarm, but David Bowie ignored them, instead throwing open cupboards, scattering mugs emblazoned with the faces of various glam rockers over the marble floor. In his frustration, he threw a Freddie Mercury espresso cup directly against the wall, where it shattered. David Bowie was filled immediately with a sense of terrible remorse. He ran into the living room.
David Bowie picked up the phone handset, and with shaking hands dialled 999. His breathing was ragged as he held the phone to his ear, and a sharp pain ravaged his chest. After what felt like an age, a woman's voice said "Hello."
"Hello," David Bowie whispered hoarsely. "My - "
"We can't handle your call right now," the woman's voice continued mechanically. "If you or a family member are being murdered, please press one. If - "
David Bowie dropped the phone to the floor. "My God," he murmured, "my God."
The faint sound of saxophone music came from the dropped handset. David Bowie did not register it.
"I'm the last man left on Earth."