On Mondays I like to spend my lunch hour in the office. I get a sandwich from the canteen and eat it at my desk while surfing the web or doing a crossword.

On Tuesdays I like to go out at lunchtime to run my errands. Bank. Post Office. Whatever.

On Wednesdays I like to have a walk up Whitehall to Trafalgar Square and look round the National Gallery. Or, if I have a little more time, maybe go down to Tate Britain instead.

On Thursday lunchtimes I like to do a bit of shopping. A few groceries here and there. Perhaps browsing through the second hand bookshops on Charing Cross Road. That sort of thing.

On Friday lunchtimes I like to reward myself after a long hard week of work by going out of the office, choosing a woman who happens to be passing by at the time, and following her as far as I can until she either disappears into a private building, gets on a bus or the tube, or sees me. If she does, then I’ll just pick another woman and follow her instead, until it’s time to head back to the office.

Sometimes she is young, sometimes middle aged, sometimes old. Sometimes white, sometimes black. Sometimes a tourist, sometimes an office worker or shopper. I’m not fussy. She has to be alone though.

You can’t beat it. Gets you nicely in the mood for the weekend.

Today is Friday. Oh yes. I am particularly looking forward to lunchtime today as everyone else will be out at the pub for Dave’s birthday drink. Which means that I will easily get away with leaving early and getting back late. Not long now. I’ve probably got time to go for a leisurely shit and then go to the departmental library to read the newspapers for a while.

Henderson, my boss, tries his best to spoil my good mood by coming in to see me, standing in the open doorframe, his usual flustered self.

"Mike! Sorry to interrupt, but how are you getting on with the BPB report? Randall’s office are getting fidgety. You know what they’re like. When do you think you’ll have it ready?"

As he says this, I face the spreadsheet on my computer, my eyes darting around the screen, single finger of one hand tapping in a few numbers, other hand scratching the back of my head, not looking up.

"I’m getting there, Bob, I’m getting there. Tuesday or Wednesday of next week? Let’s call it Wednesday. How will that suit them upstairs?" I glance up at Henderson before getting back my to my spreadsheet, stroking my chin and frowning.

"Should be ok. I’ll let them know. Thanks, Mike. You’re a star," says Henderson and disappears back to his room.

Of course, what that twat Henderson doesn’t know is that I finished the report three days ago. But what is the point in handing over work as soon as I’ve done it? If I do that I’ll just be given more crappy stuff to do. Why should I have to put up with that? Why shouldn’t I be able to work at my own pace? I work too hard as it is. I don’t want to burn myself out before I reach 30. I don’t want to end up like Henderson.

About a year ago I spent a whole week’s worth of lunch hours following Henderson. What an idiot that man is! Every day, without fail, he left the office at exactly the same time, used the same exit, walked along the same route, went into the same sandwich shop, bought the same sandwich (tuna and mayonnaise with lettuce on a white roll), went into the same newsagents where he bought the same drink (Tango orange) and the same chocolate bar (Snickers - King Size), walked through St James’s Park, taking the same path, before heading back the same way but in reverse. He probably still does this.

People like that never learn until something happens. I almost felt obliged to warn him. It’s so obvious. By taking the same route at the same time, every day, he is making himself extremely vulnerable to an assassination attempt or to a terrorist kidnapping plot. Leaving himself wide open. But then again, who is going to assassinate or kidnap a not-very-senior civil servant in a not-very-important government department? You never know, though. You never know. There are madmen out there. Madmen. That’s the thing.

As Henderson leaves, Simon and Chris, the two irritating fools who I share a room with, come in carrying mugs of coffee. They are laughing at some joke or other that started down the corridor but is just finishing. Chris sits down and starts to make a phone call, while Simon remains standing and goes through a pile of papers that appeared on his desk while he was out. Without looking at me he asks if I’ve changed my mind and will be coming to the pub for Dave’s birthday drink.

"Everyone’s going," he says, still looking through his papers. "Should be good. You ought to come." He turns towards Chris. "Chris might get pissed and make an arse of himself again," he sneers, but Chris is deep in conversation on the phone and doesn’t hear him.

"Sorry. Busy busy busy, you know me," I explain, while taking the ball thing out of my mouse and blowing out the fluff.

"Don’t say you never get asked," says Simon as he takes his seat and starts fiddling with his tie, the same one he’s had on all week.

These days, I make a point of never socialising with colleagues. Not since I got involved with that mad witch from Accounts a couple of years back. It just doesn’t pay. You have to keep your distance, or you end up regretting it. We weren’t seeing each other very long and the whole thing was obviously hopeless so I had to dump her. But she just wouldn’t have it. She was practically stalking me, the stupid bint. I couldn’t get rid of her, no matter what I said or how I said it. I didn’t want to kill her cat, but what choice did I have? I had to. It was the only way. Got her off my back, and she resigned shortly afterwards as well. But I learnt my lesson. Why should I go drinking with them and all that, just because I happen to work in the same building? You have to keep them at arms length.

At the desk next to Simon, Chris is still on the phone. He is trying to keep his voice down but he is obviously talking to his ‘girlfriend’ or whatever she is supposed to be. It sounds like he is getting agitated with her over something. Perhaps young Chris is beginning to realise that these women are nothing more than whores. All of them. Maybe there’s hope for him yet.

Time to stretch my legs, so I head upstairs to the library, via the sixth floor toilets, which for some reason are far superior to ours on the fourth floor. Probably because Henderson doesn’t shit up there.

At this time of the morning, the seating area in the library is usually empty so I can have a nice little browse through the newspapers and magazines without being annoyed by anyone. Today, however, that strange bloke from Estates is in here, skiving away, flicking through some scientific journals. I have no idea who this man is, but there is something seriously wrong with him. Every time I go to the toilet, he seems to be in there. Brushing his teeth. Brushing them really frantically, foaming at the mouth. It doesn’t matter what time of the day it is - first thing in the morning, mid-morning, lunchtime, early afternoon, mid-afternoon, late afternoon, whenever - he’s there, brushing his fucking teeth! He’s there when I go into the toilets, he’s there when I leave the toilets. Does he live in there? What a freak! I tell you, I really worry about this place. Who employs these people?

I try to settle down with today’s Daily Telegraph but it’s no good, I can’t concentrate, not with that weirdo there. I wait for a short time to see if he is going to go off and brush his teeth or something, but he doesn’t, so I give up and head out.

Obviously it is too early to go back and think about doing some work just yet, so I decide to take a well-deserved break in the canteen. The canteen woman gives me a filthy look but I have no idea why. I take my cup of tea and mini-pack of custard creams over to a window seat and admire the views over Westminster, looking out at the people passing by. Then I study the sky for a couple of moments. The weather looks like it will stay fine, which always helps on a Friday. Not long now till lunchtime.

END