Stream of Semi-Consciousness

The day commences with a game of Morning Maths. ("Five more minutes if I don't have breakfast... an extra four if I have just a really short, ineffectual shower... add three if I don't brush my hair out all the way to the end...") Much subsequent rushing around dropping things. Then comes some idle tube-staring before I sink wearily down at my grey temp desk to switch on my computer and wonder what I am doing with my life.

My temp job is kitten-flayingly dull. There is a button to my right. When the button emits a buzz I must press it. I am not, as you might well immediately assume, taking part in some elaborate Pavlovian experiment. I know this because even though I do press the buzzer-button when it button-buzzes, nobody ever gives me food as a reward. Instead a door opens, and through that door some faceless worker strides, shuffles, meanders, creeps. Sometimes they say hello, sometimes not. Mostly they stare importantly over my head as I look at them with powers of judgement reserved only for those who have little else to do but make assumptions about people purely based on the pattern of their tie. In the kitchen the coffee tastes like it has already been drunk. The lights over my head hum relentlessly, every so often winking laciviously like parodical whores. I turn my head to the right and stare at a broken tile of sky that glints between the identi-kit grey monoliths littering the surrounding streets.

Today I am wearing a red dress. I smile at everyone who walks past regardless of whether they themselves smile at me. I treated myself to a soy-milk cappuccino this morning from the vegetarian shop round the corner. (I like the man in there, he is friendly and always asks me how the DJ-ing is going. The first few times I corrected him and told him that no, it is singing, but now I just go along with his wrong conclusion. I picture myself on the decks in Hoxton Square wearing some large sunglasses and a quirky hat and tell him that it's going very well, thank you.) I like some people in this office, I dislike others. I enjoy launching myself into office small talk, energetically discussing the weather and heartily heaping disdain upon the efficacy of the Northern Line. I like wondering about the bicyle couriers, who stride into the building with their small shoes and rope-like muscles, dusty and glazed from London's sepia streets. I do not like the post man, who I know for a fact spread rumours about me when I first started working here. Upon his loping entrance my smile wilts. People send around unamusing and often borderline bigoted viral emails, calling them "funnies". These make me want to eat my own head. People dissect the office politics, shaking their heads and whispering in angry, conspiratorial tones. I have seen so many identical scenes in every single office I have worked in and so I cannot take them seriously. I hate the man who stares at my breasts when I he speaks to me, primarily because he does not realize he is engaging in such tired cliché. I like the lady who tells me about her cats. I like standing forlornly at the photocopier looking dejected because it makes me laugh to engage in such tired cliché myself. I like the girl I don't really know but who came to reception yesterday to offer me her last Choc Ice. I didn't really like the Choc Ice itself, but felt grateful as I snapped its chocolate shell with my cold teeth. When people pass me I wonder about them. I wonder what they were like as children. Then I stop wondering and start daydreaming about my own life.

Thinking about last weekend. A festival and a beautiful boyfriend (mine) (thankfully). Music and poetry. Dappled sunshine through the light green tent canvas and grass in unbrushed hair. Open sky, warm cans of beer and bonfires.

Thinking about this weekend. Friends and writing. Music to be written for Monday. A song publishing contract to be signed. Gym ambitions and suspected realities.

The button buzzes again and I press it. A door opens. I continue to sit, wishing it was opening for me.