Paper work this, paper work that, type type type type type, then a knock at the door. And the only break is the toilet: the streaming heat of urine between finger and thumb, like a line of bullets fired from a machine gun.

And the clear bright porcelain, could you not be the face of my boss, or the trousers of those typing out admin messages elsewhere? No: all you hold is a chewed up piece of their discarded gum, or a pube shaped like a question mark.

But all the wretched worries and violent queries of work are soon to be done. Now is the weekend, where the city out there will flood in here, with cheap fluids of regular beer; flood his frame and his fist, until all goes silent, and dark, with a thud.