In the winter of 2029, in the midst of the fourth economic crisis in a decade, the new UK government revoked the Winter Fuel Payments, much to the consternation of pensioners. Chief among those complaining was Granddad. Not because he needed the money - he's swimming in money. But, as he says, he'd "paid into the system all his life" and, in retirement, it had become his raison d'être to claw back as much as he could from the state.

"If somebody offers you free things, my boy, you grab them with both hands!" he insists.

To assuage their aging voter base, the government implements the Winter Fat Payments as a cheaper alternative. Those retirees feeling the winter cold could opt to have their bodies pumped full with a thick layer of insulative fat, and the government would reimburse the cost of the surgery. Well of course Grandpa jumps at the opportunity.

I visit him during his surgery. A queue of somewhat plump women snakes out of the front doors of the hospital and down the road. To meet the demands of suddenly lipografting the country's pensioners, the government is heavily subsidizing liposuction, to the point where they're having to pay women to be donors. A thick plastic tube runs out of the doors of the liposuction clinic, trailing along the roof of the hospital corridors, pulsating with a stream of freshly harvested, yellow fat. I followed the tube to the geriatric ward.

It's hard not to laugh to see Grandad's bony ass lying in the hospital bed. They'd only inflated the right half of him! One swollen, globular breast strains against his NHS-brand lingerie, while one thick thigh squirms against the sheets beside his thin, unaugmented left leg. His head lolls against the pillow. Somehow the thick filling suits him. It stretches him out, erasing the wrinkle lines, and gives the skin a tight, young glow. The slightest movement sets his tit trembling.

"You won't get much conversation out of him, I'm afraid. We've still another gallon to put in him. He's still heavily sedated," a nurse said, tending to him brusquely. She had another hundred patients to bloat before the end of her shift. She hooks a wide-bore needle into the fresh fat pipeline and inserts it into his chest, just below the left nipple. "Would you mind helping to move him?"

I help to roll him onto his side, struggling to find somewhere to put my hands that isn't painfully bony or horribly soft and supple. She takes an even wider needle, flicks the end of it as a glob of fat oozes from the tip, and then shoves it unceremoniously in his ass. A gloopy stream began to pulse into his flat buttock. I try not to notice as his cheek balloons to match the other, the two starting to vie for space on his narrow pelvis, and gobbling up the panties between them.