Wednesday 6th August, 2003 – Word

Bobby Bhowmik sits at his desk, stubbly of face and crumply of shirt. It has been a long week. A long and also a stressful week. A long and stressful. Week.

After a poor night’s sleep – disrupted by stifling heat, and recurring nightmares that wrench him into wakefulness with a gut churning rapidity, that leaves him sweaty, clinging to the sheets – he has somehow found his way into the office. He can barely remember how he got there, the whole of the morning until this point a dreamy patchwork of already fading memories. A shower….toothpaste….toothpaste in the eye….ouch…a cinnamon and spiced fruit muffin….the type of muffin that you have to toast, not the fresh type…it is all black. A black muffin.

As his computer whirrs and clicks into life, winking sardonically at the start of another day of panic and dread, a figure looms behind him. Lets call him Dave. It is Dave, in a striped Next shirt, with the sleeves rolled up, to reveal hairy, blotchy forearms and a gold identity bracelet with ‘Dave’ – his name – emblazoned on it. Yes. Forearms.

Bob doesn’t even look round. I don’t want to talk to you, I don’t want to see you, I can already smell you, you big ape, just leave me alone, walk back to your stupid be-gonked desk and leave me alone. Yes. Gonks.

Like some great deranged dragon, Bob grabs the mouse and opens up Word.

‘Word, eh?’ says Dave.

Yes. Word.