There came a late-nochy collocoll at our dormy. Three gromky rasps tolled for the spectres outside. Set me zoobies on edge, it did. The gromky collocoll had been preceded by them clockwork goosesteps of orange boots on the slabs outside and we both knew exactly what that meant. Ade turned to me, wide-googlied with pog. Me tick-tock was down in me pit, thumping like jack. But had they come for him or me? I threw the covers off and reached for the lamp-switch but Ade grabbed me rooker and pulled me back. ​“Leave it off. The rozz don’t know we’re ‘ere.” The pog in his goloss was palpable but honest-like, I was just as poogly too. Accounts had circulated ‘mongst us blueberries, like kiddywink ghost stories; tales of blueberries being rounded up and taken to the London Lighthouse. It’s funny how things change, ain’t it? A century back, the London Lighthouse was a residential charity for blueberries with ‘the blue sickness’ – it made you pony a world of liberty and tolerance – but now-times them two words strike pog into the tick-tocks of all us blueberries. Laws change, public opinion comes and goes, and the clockworks bring us all back to the start with each revolution. I’ve known since I was in skollywol that I was a blueberry but it was always natural for me; it never entered me rassadook that the vecks would make blueberry lullibub illegal. ​“Evan, don’t.” Ade pleaded as I knotted me gown ‘round me pit and walked down the wall-to-wall. There was no point cowering under the covers. We’d both heard the stories of what happens to the cluck-clucks; a nosh in yer yarbles – let the scarlet moloko drain out. I gingerly googlied the spyhole and my tick-tock beat harder as the spectral figures ‘came crystal; three tough-looking orange millicents stood the other side of our dormy dor, backlit by the streetlamps outside. ​“Don’t make a sound.” I whispered back down the wall-to-wall. Then I swallowed me pog and opened the door. ​“Evan Newchild?” the first millicent yawped and I nodded trepid-like. “You depraved mongrel!” he spat. He waited a tick then lifted a tablet from his pocket, widened his pearlies with sinister joy and parlayed my writ. “Evan Newchild, you have been tried and found guilty of a contravention of the Orthosexuality Act of 2072. You will be taken from this place to the London Lighthouse where you will undergo conversion treatment.” So, they’d come for me. If yer believed the stories they told at The Korova Bar – And why wouldn’t yer? The stories had wormed into our rassoodocks like memes – like every blueberry, you was pogful for the day the orange collocoll came. They parlay that the London Lighthouse is in the old building of an actual lighthouse at Trinity Buoy Wharf. An actual lighthouse in London? Pony That! The stories parlay of this menacing orange doctor. Call him The Orthotist, they do. Yer get taken to a cylindrical room on the first floor – and that’s where The Orthotist straightens yer out – guess the oranges have a sense of irony at least. They parlay of blueberries, young blueberry men, strapped into a chair with bindings on their rookers and rocks –cathodes in their bonse and alligator snappers on their yarbles – orthotic instruments lined up, ready and waiting, like a torture chamber. They parlay that yer can hear the blueberry creeching, late at night, echoing ‘cross the wharf. The first orange millicent bound me rookers, then the other two man-handled me into the back of their van. I let ‘em take me without starting a drat. I were just praying to bog that they didn’t googlie inside – that they didn’t ooko Adam – but Adam didn’t make a sound, bless him, and as they closed me dormy dor, once I ponied him safe, I laughed gromky and bold. Earned me a kulak that near blew me googlies from their sockets, that did. “Trouble with you blueberries is your ticks are tocking, you’re out of sync, but we’ll soon have you straightened out – orange like clockwork. Wouldn’t that feel better?” He sat opposite-like, in back o’ the van, holding a britva to me like he was poogly ‘bout what I might do. ​“You should be happy, not every blueberry gets to go to the Lighthouse.” he spat as he poked the britva blade into me mouth and slit me goobers - made like I was smiling, “Once the orthotist is finished with you, you’ll be ticking straight like a good orange.” I googlied him viz-to-viz, and as the scarlet moloko dripped from me brow and me goobers, I grinned a defiant flash of me pearlies. “Clockwork oranges…ha!” tick-tock, tick-tock, “I’ll never be like you!”