Chapter 1 - Simon, Friday

He’s left the lid of the fucking toothpaste again! God, as if I didn’t feel bad enough about being 37 and living with the same people I went to college with, I have to put up with someone misusing my toothpaste. And my toothbrush for all I know! How can a grown man be so hopeless? Honestly, I feel like his mother when I’m around him, and it’s all I can do to stop myself wiping his nose and asking if he’s got clean pants on. Yes, I know I’m uptight and need to relax more, but this doesn’t help
OK, calm down, it’s only toothpaste. Yeah right. And how many years has this been happening? God, I’ve gotta get out of here! It can’t be good for me. I swear I’ll have a stroke over something dumb like the washing up or who watered the plants last!
Still, at least he’s not about this morning, so I get to stomp round the house uninterrupted. And thank God it’s Friday! Oh shit, is that the time? No time for breakfast again, and at this rate I’ll be lucky to make the bus.

I love the fact there’s a newsagent between the flat and the bus stop. If it wasn’t for them I’d starve to death on a regular basis, and it’s nice to start the day with a cheery “hello” as I buy my paper and steal some chocolate from them. I could pay for it of course, but that’s not the point. Sometimes I don’t even eat it. It’s not about the chocolate, it’s about that brief moment when my hand reaches out to select something, when someone could turn round and catch you red-handed. I know it’s stupid, and if I ever got caught I’d literally die of shame, but it gets my heart racing and reminds me I’m alive. I don’t know why I didn’t do it sooner - all my friends habitually shop-lifted their way through school so they had something to eat after they’d spent their dinner money on cigarettes. I was too busy doing my homework to have time. I was a twat.

You’d think after three years I’d know a few people on this bus, but we’re all so busy hiding behind our papers I’m hardly on nodding acquaintance with anyone. Everyone’s plugged into something - their phone, some music player, or tapping away on a palm thing as if they had something so vital they just couldn’t keep the thought in their head till they get off.
I’m as bad though: get on, open paper, hide behind it until I reach my stop. I’m not sure I even remember what the woman next to me looks like, although I can tell you more useless facts about today’s news than is really necessary. I should buy a book, something improving. Something that will make people look at me in a new light, and start up conversations with me.
I sometimes dream of meeting someone on the bus. Sharing a seat for a few stops, laughing and chatting as only strangers who’ll never meet again can. Once I thought that person would be a woman, but now I’m not so sure. It’s been a while, I’m not sure I’d remember how to behave if I met anyone anyway. God I must get out more.

Work. It’s slowly bleeding the life out of me. When did any of this shit become important to me? I used to be interested in stuff, now all I do is read reports, send emails and quietly resent my colleagues all day. And update my ‘Top 3 colleagues who should fall under a bus soon’ chart. Today’s chart sees Anita making a surprise leap to number one, and not just because those stupid shoes make horrid click-clacking noises on the floor. Who’d have thought Kevin would ever lose the top spot again, the man is too stupid to live! Or maybe I am for staying here all these years and putting up with these fools. Oh God, here comes Neil, if only I could make myself invisible.

I’m too old to be hiding from people in the toilet, but there’s a client in reception who I should have organised some stuff for, and inevitably I haven’t. He’s not here to see me, but I just want to avoid the, “oh hi Simon, you got those forms for me?” moment. I should be better at this. Or I should leave. I wonder if he’s gone now? I wish I’d brought the paper with me, but that would have been too obvious. And who wants to be trapped in the toilet with a report?

“oh hi Simon, you got those forms for me?”
Fuck. Bloody Neil, always running late, why can he never start a meeting on time.
“Just on my way to get them for you, I’ll pop them into you before you finish with Neil”
Fuck. Now I’ve got to do the bloody forms. Why didn’t I just give it to Anita to do in the first place? Now I’ll be late to meet to meet Jim. He won’t care, but I do hate being late. That’ll teach me. Except it probably won’t, it’ll just make me grumpier.

Haven’t seen Jim in weeks. Every time we plan to meet some personal (him) or work (me) thing gets in the way. Will be good to catch up with him, although it continually surprises me that we’ve remained friends as we’re so different. He’s far too laid back for my liking, and is basically winging it on a daily basis. He’d be a nightmare to live or work with, and thankfully I’ve been spared both experiences. But somehow he’s turned into a good mate, and I’m sure if I was in trouble he’d help. As long as I could drag him out of the house.
The pubs nice too - really quiet, unrestored, and unfashionably dirty. Somehow it missed out when the pub chains went made for light airy pubs with trendy cocktails, and it’s managed to hang onto it’s battered tables and jukebox full of scratchy vinyl. It’s really is like stepping back in time, and after it’s enveloped you for a while it’s hard to head back into the real world. One pint is never enough, but it will have to do today as there’s work to get back to.
But first I’ve got to get out of this place. There’s an awful Pub Posse who set up home in the nearest Weatherspoons every Friday lunchtime, and won’t take no for an answer if they catch you on the way out of the building. Honestly, it’s easier to say yes than put up a fight. I’ve seen them carry grown women to the pub before, although I think the struggle she put up was more for effect than anything else. But they’re not to be messed with, because if you say no they’ll only come back drunk and spend all afternoon giving you grief about it. And as one of them is a manager it’s pretty tricky for anyone to make a fuss about it, so we’ve all developed our own little ways of avoiding them. I like to leave a little earlier than I should, but because of those stupid forms I’ve missed the moment and now they’re loitering round reception for their leader. Guess who - Neil! Actually, I should revise my list - he really needs to go under a bus today. Perhaps I should go with them and attempt it on the way back, as they stumble along the High Street. Only trouble is that at this time of day the traffic is so slow it’d never work.

Phew, I got out. Neil came down with the client so the mob dispersed, now doubt going ahead to make a start without him. I waited till Neil nipped back into his office and legged it, head down just in case anyone should try and catch my eye. Out of the door, left, right, right again. Yeah, it’s the long way round, but it keeps me away from the mob. I’d phone Jim and let him know I’m running late, but neither of us has really embraced mobile phones - he just loses his, and I seemed to have managed well enough so far that it seems pointless to start.
Ok, the pub. My oasis for the next hour. Please let the food be quick, I’m starving. And please let Jim be here…