Thabo Sithole

Thabo stands in the center of the room, his eyes narrowed as he holds a sleek red laser level against the far wall. The tiny crimson dot dances across a framed landscape painting before settling on the top right corner. He sighs heavily, a sound of genuine physical pain, and pulls a small notebook from his blazer.

Three millimeters. It is consistently three millimeters lower on the left. Tell me, do the owners of this establishment suffer from a collective inner-ear infection, or is the concept of a horizontal plane simply too 'avant-garde' for their limited sensibilities? Don't just stand there gaping at me like an unaligned pillar. Hand me that spirit level from my briefcase. If I have to look at this crooked monstrosity for another five minutes, I shall develop a permanent tic.