Last Week: An Extract of a Novel

Chapter One Monday Morning

There's one thing I'd always thought was odd about the human condition
- well, my condition, and let's face it, that's what I'm most
interested in - that whenever we sleep, we wish to be awake, yet as
soon as we awake, we wish to be asleep once more. Look at me, for
example. I'm neither asleep or awake but between both, like an unmanned
canal boat drifting on the water, with high embankments either
side.

Look, here I am, not in one place or the other, but compromising to the
satisfaction of nobody. I actually dreamed of sleep a while ago, crumbs
of soil thrown from a hiker's boot. Sleep on a Sunday night is as
sustaining as a glass of 'mock water' Dr Catface said he'd invented
when they interviewed him on BBC Radio News a few days ago.

I suppose it'll start again in a minute, the argument of life, pulling
me this way and that. At least I can't say it will be a surprise. But
as long as I argue, I can avoid a resolution.

* * * * *

The alarm clock, as inherited as my genes, is always set for 6.45am,
yet never fails to shock me when it rings. (I knew you were going to
say that).
I pick at my scar as the weekdays loom over me, Monday the nearest,
the summit of Friday lost to the clouds. Sound is my guide-rope to
Saturday, for Saturday brings music. Those are the rules.
Galaxies of dust float in the glow of the PC, each particle a world
without life, the omnipresent hum preventing the invasion of silence. I
make it to bathroom thanks only to the caffeine shot of diet
cola.
The bare bathroom light is as intense as x-rays, but washing makes me
feel alive, as if I belong in this world.

'Hi Mum, hi Dad. Another week, eh? Wonder what will happen?'

(You said that last week). I polish my photograph of Mum and Dad on my
forearm, then kiss them both on the head. Outside, mean-hearted clouds
subdue the September light as a Triceratops lumbers towards the
junction with the main road; a female, its distended belly indulges in
a vile ripple as the thing inside reaches through the maternal ribcage.
The monster's neck frill rustles, the massive head mounted onto the
body as if it were a trophy of itself, as she beads a malignant glare
at me, its beak parting to taste the air. The radio spills sentences
onto the floor.

'Hiya tosspots! Your old mate Sonia Bull here with the BBC Radio Music
Breakfast Show. Here's the UK's new number one, my record of the week
last week, US teen sensation Angelica Softcloud with Ooh Yeah Baby I
Love You. She's the latest star from the Panaglobex label and Colin
wants to get into her diapers, dontcha Col?'

'No, she's too - '

'Col, you've got more chance of shagging me, and that's never gonna
happen!'

There are two types of predictability: comforting and depressing.
Angelica Softcloud at number one represents the latter and my breakfast
the former: coffee, sugarflakes, toast and prunes. Prunes were Dad's
favourite.

'Funny old Dad.'

Funnier than Softcloud, that's for sure; Britain's most popular song
has all the melody of a panicking murderer dragging a body around a
cramped room to find a hiding place.

Once I've assumed the appearance of a bored, underpaid office worker,
Sonia Bull's remark about the unusual texture of Softcloud's breasts
hangs in the air until devoured by a roar from the street.
On goes the telly; AMTV slops into view and words pile up on the floor
like black slippery bricks.

'Time now for the news headlines, read by Fiona Slattern.'

'Good morning on this, Monday, the twenty-fourth of September. The
lead story, rumours that Hollywood stars Johnny Cocaine and Lisa
Dollars are to marry. Dollars, confirmed yesterday by Panaglobex
scientists to be pregnant, is expected to announce the cost of the
engagement ring later today.'

Didn't those two split up a few days back? At least that's solved the
mystery of Lisa's 'weight problem'; you don't get that fat by taking
prescription drugs.

'Johnny, previously linked to Angelica Softcloud, who's been linked to
rock star Nick Callaghan, who was linked to me the other night, is our
special guest tomorrow and we wish him the very best of luck. Marrying
that bitch he'll need it. Elsewhere, an earthquake has struck the
Arabian peninsular, leading the fears of a price increase in petrol.
Now for the news in whichever dismal little province you've had the
misfortune to be born in.'

A dental-challenging burst of synthesiser heralds the both the local
news and the urge to hurry. Mustn't be late.

'Good morning, a couple from the region have been caught up in the
Arabian earthquake that struck last night. Mr and Mrs Gordon Drainage
of Snegglesthorpe, near Knotcastle, were staying in a hotel that
collapsed in the disaster. Mr Drainage, who was sightseeing when the
earthquake took place, works for a company that makes pants for circus
elephants and is currently tutting while he waits for his wife to dig
herself out of the rubble.'

Before the satsuma-skinned presenter has a chance to give the weather
forecast, we're given a leisurely look at Fiona Slattern, who's very
unaware of our presence, before we cut to the latest gossip from
Hollywood, presented by a woman the other side of the studio.
Silence now. Just me, them and The Voice. (I don't think you're all
there). Just one CD before I go, an another drink. (Harry and Sylvia
will be watching you. Martin will talk of his latest conquest. Isabel,
Carl, Anne, all waiting). I'm waiting for Jill and she could be waiting
for me tonight.
As I listen to the second Brain album, I take a close look at Zoe's
painting. I've studied it for five years and cracks are appearing in
the paint, little flakes of colour would fall if I brushed the canvas.
No matter how hard I look, there's no sense to the streaks and shapes,
the bolts of vivid colour and stark plains of white.

Mustn't be late. I switch on the radio to deter burglars, who'll think
I've got a fully manned BBC radio station in my flat.

'Bye everyone. Back in nine hours.'

'And the daft cow's still mithering about how they're real, but I know
real ones when I feel them and that pair are as real as Johnny and
Lisa.'

Chapter 2

Drizzle, of course.
Down the steps, across the courtyard to the shed.

'Come on, old son.'

I cycle up the street and turn right. It's as well I can't afford a
car as cycling helps me to forget my destination. Commuting is out of
the question, as one of Knotcastle's few claims to fame, aside from my
dear employers, is the lack of a train station, one of those 'just
fancy that' facts people trot out to each other instead of
conversation.
Across the roundabout, I swerve to avoid the tail of a Stegosaurus
parked on the central reservation to feast on the flower displays, its
high back fins wafting in the breeze, parted and untidy like a
fashionable student's hairstyle. It coughs up a gastrolith that sails
like a shot putt onto the windscreen of a Ford Ka, whose driver curses
another Monday morning. The Ka cuts me up as it pulls up near a phone
box at the side of the road.
You're exposed to the elements on a bike, but the biggest worry is
exposure to those whose driving license constitutes their sole academic
qualification. (So why do you work for Knotcastle Insurance? Ah, but
that's one question we both now the answer to). Rain mingles with sweat
on my brow.

There's a good view of the daily congestion as I walk the bike across
the footbridge, above the ruins of the medieval wall defences. Towards
the horizon, you can see The Crater; after the war, the council was so
proud of our being the first town in Britain to be hit by a V1 rocket,
they roped it off and turned it into an attraction, even though the
Nazis were aiming for London. It's got a blue plaque and there's a
commemorative service each year; some people believe it's good luck to
take a dip in The Crater when it floods, even though someone drowned a
couple of years ago.
Left, downhill past the taxi rank, past Anderson's and, fuck it, stop
at the lights. A Styracosaur herd charge along the adjoining road, an
old man impaled onto the pack leader's horn, his limbs stretched out
and shaking like a compass pointing you everywhere at once. The man's
scarf trails behind him, as if pointing out the way he came. A bag of
groceries falls from the body's grasp and is crushed under
hooves.

'Oi, you old wanker,' shouts a prepubescent schoolboy, picking up a
discarded orange. 'You forgot this!'

Cheered by his friends, the boy throws the orange and knocks off the
old man's cap - a terrific shot. The kids chase uphill after the
Styracosaurs, mocking the man who gave up. (Why didn't you visit Mum
and Dad over the weekend?) I didn't need to.

Left, right and the pink-slither of the cycle path, past the 'Knotmouth
48' sign, left and slalom the potholes to Zenith House. Mustn't be
late. Down the side alley, under the CCTV cameras and squeeze past
Harry's inconsiderately parked car to the bike shed, a posh name for an
angular lump of rust with a bit of corrugated iron for a roof.
Behind the mesh and barbed wire is a patch of wasteland full of
shrubbery, budlieas mostly, though Steve reckons he's spotted a few
cannabis plants in there. The barbed wire isn't all that effective; the
last burglar who broke in took one look at our PCs and left us a
portable telly he'd stolen earlier that night. The budlieas loll lazily
from side to side, with not a sound to be heard. You only hear the
inhabitants when they're hungry.
Run upstairs to the first floor toilets and into the roomy disabled
cubicle. It's not a problem, as Knotcastle Insurance PLC doesn't employ
any disabled people; we're an equal opportunities employer, meaning we
discriminate against all minorities equally.
Once changed, I tidy up in the mirror. (You know, I can see myself in
you these days). Quick, quick, up the stairs, am I late? Only now, it
begins.
8.30am. On time. We have flexitime here, so in theory you can arrive
any time between eight and ten, but I have to arrive at
eight-thirty.
The details rush in, of how I spend my days. (Who's going to keep you
company today? Jill? Zoe? Jenny?) None of them. I'm going to think of
Mum, Dad and that poor old man.

'Got an application form here,' says Carl, 'and they've ticked that
box. Are we still??'

'Too bloody right,' says Harry. 'We don't want none of that
lot.'

'I saw some old bloke on the way - '

'Yes, we know,' snaps Harry, 'just forget about it.'

Forget about it? (Don't worry, one day I'll help you forget). I don't
want to forget. (Oh, but you wish could).
The office is more real than I remembered. Three blocks of desks along
the left, six desks in each, two blocks of four on the right, including
the four-strong helpline, where Steve works.
Directly to my right, the heap of crap that occasionally functions as
the photocopier and next to that, the heap of crap that occasionally
functions as my team's manager, Harry. The manager of the other team on
this floor, Jane, sits neatly in the far left-hand corner, which she
sits, arranging folders and glances with a setsquare.
It's all horribly in place; no, worse than horrible, it's actual. The
'inspirational' work posters compete with smiling models as model
employees, the one about meritocracy with a tear ripped out of it; the
note stuck on the pillar near the fax machine, reminding a
long-forgotten drone to 'tell Theresa about that maturity case',
despite only Sylvia remembering who Theresa was; the wilting pot plants
that wait in vain for the horticulturists sacked in the recession; the
tatty printers, covered in safety stickers and post-its of contact
numbers for various KI branches; the sellotaped remains of Christmas
decorations trapped in ceiling corners like glam-rock spiders; the
fibrous, scratchy lilac carpet, the grains of wood in the desks, the
off-white textured wallpaper, the pictures of Sylvia's nieces and
nephews stuck around her terminal, a flowering of polaroids.
The office crawls with forgotten details. All that changes in here is
the time on the clock.

Chapter 3

8.30am. Once more, I find myself as a pensions administrator at
Knotcastle Insurance Company PLC.

'Morning Carl.'

'James.'

Thirty-something Carl, owner of a sensible car, an economical haircut,
a suit from Ikea, a firm but fair wife and a child they probably bought
from a catalogue. Carl sits two desks along, in the bottom left-hand
corner of the room, a location much more interesting than his
personality, which is of a computer after someone's entered a joke into
its search engine.

'Harry. Good weekend?'

'No.'

Probably due to his twin girls, the only reason he hasn't deserted
them is to spite his wife, whom he likes even less than his children.
Serves her right for marrying an over-ripe waxwork of a caveman that's
been greased into a suit and shoved to the front of the 'modern man'
display due to some cost-cutting exercise. A shaving rash marbles
Harry's neck with red and his forehead gleams with testosterone.
There are no messages waiting for me.
The view from my desk isn't bad; I can see the whole office and watch
people come and go. (It's only time you get to watch people come. Mind
you, seen a few go, haven't you?) Most of all, I can see the clock in
the corner of my eye. A glance and there's eight hours to go.
Sylvia barges through the doors, as if weighed down by bags of January
sale shopping; it's lucky she's so large as she carries the whole
office on her back, so she never tires of telling us. As ever, her
first action is to turn on all the overhead lights, flicking the
switches like a bored prison guard on Death Row. A shiver goes up my
spine as she dawdles past, all tucks and bulk and folds.

'Morning, Sylvia.'

'Unh.'

Devoid of joy as Carl may be, he's an orchard of zest compared to the
glob of vain, misguided moral bankruptcy named Sylvia. Carl is tall and
precise, nondescript like a mathematical diagram, while Sylvia is half
his height and so overweight she's only a half-buttock away from
needing a second chair to sit on. Scrubs of mousy hair, the result of
some long-ago botched perm, top off her body, trussed up and squeezed
like a joint of pork, her psychic gravity warping the lines that
balance us out. (Harry, Sylvia and Carl are married). Sylvia's marriage
is a seaside postcard, she the reddened globe in a deckchair, he thin,
wooden and manipulated, m-shaped seagulls in the sky. (Where the North
Sea wind never blows).
The needles of brightness contrast with the force hamfistedly plunging
my brain into a bucket of treacle. (Don't tell me, you wish it were the
weekend). The weekend, as close and out of reach as a lost loved
one?ah, but the clock, the clock, will bring me the weekend. (It will
also bring you Monday). I need coffee and a trip to the toilet, and I
make myself last without either until nine o'clock.

As I wash my hands with the liquid soap that draws water from your
skin, the Fat Man waddles to the smaller cubicle. This guy could team
up with Sylvia at Halloween, put on Hawaiian shirts and go trick and
treating as American tourists, if Sylvia didn't hate fat people. His
sides flatten as he goes into the cubicle, like a marshmallow being
squeezed into a matchbox.

Anne has taken her place, opposite Carl - in all the time she's worked
in this team, I can't remember seeing Anne arrive, she just?appears.
It's why I call her Ghostgirl. Short, slight, with a hairstyle so
mundane it's timeless, her face a cameo of a dumb Victorian serving
girl who doesn't understand what his Lordship does to her in the
vestibule every night, Anne creates silences so hard she has an unreal
quality, as if she's emerged from the walls of Zenith House.

'Morning Anne, you OK? Oh, hi Emma.'

Anne's reply is a downward tilt of the head, a blush and an ongoing
pause. Emma sits at the adjoining set of tables and does her best to
deflect John's wartime-issue sense of humour.

Tiredness does at least makes the work less real and I can convince
myself the old man who gave up was just a dream.
Better check my system diary. Hmm, weekly team-meeting tomorrow and
that's it. (No wonder you haven't got time to work). I'd phone Heather,
but she's got the day off, a family outing somewhere. Steve's on the
phone, so culture will have to wait. Time to work.
Some tasks are easy to process. If a policyholder wants to terminate
payment of premiums, that's simple to sort out, which is just as well.
Each task has an arbitrary and inaccurate amount of time in which to be
completed, with every task having a target of five days to be completed
- three days, once you've factored in our comfortable two day backlog.
(What are you doing here?) This may sound a lot, but when your computer
system hasn't been cutting edge since TV science shows were excitedly
predicting an age when specialist shops would sell 'home computers' to
the decimalised, five days becomes necessary. Luckily, most of us are
just IT-literate enough to amend our personal work output statistics to
suit the expectations of Senior Management.
If you happen to forget yourself and miss a target, your reason to
Harry had better be good, technically baffling or just really funny.
Personally, I couldn't care if Harry died where he sat; at least his
body odour might improve.
Sylvia lobs a postcard in the vague direction of my desk. It's from
Angie, one of Jane's team, currently in Lanzarote. Judging by the
lengthy descriptions of male genitalia, a good time is being had by
all. She's into big ones is our Angie, though not as often as they're
into her, as Martin never tires of saying. If it means encountering
Angie and her crowd, I'm glad I don't like to travel. (Oh, but you love
to travel, deep down). Wrong. You know I can't leave Knotcastle.
I put the card on Martin's desk so he can see how he measures up. Soon
the postcard will reach the journey's end of all office postcards,
mounted on blu-tac around the wallchart planner, maybe next to Steve's
from Cuba.
The only British cards are those with Harry's scrawl on the back and
an 'x' on the front to indicate their hotel room. Harry can't take his
family abroad as his wife thinks 'abroad' is one vast landmass full of
poisonous animals, volcanoes, civil wars, epidemics and famines, a
scorpion in every shoe and every patch of soil an epicentre.

'Coffee anyone?'

'Extra sugar,' grunts Sylvia. 'And a bag of salt and vinegar. Ages
since breakfast.'
She paws 50p from the handbag she got free with five vouchers at Boots
and the coin rolls onto my desk like a prototype wheel.

Chapter 4

Mm, it might taste like a freshly cleaned cheese grater, but it's not
taste that's important, but feeling more alive than the others. The
vending area offers a summation of the country's (well, Sylvia's)
dietary habits, crisps and chocolate for food, coffee or hot chocolate
for drinks. True, you can select tea, but tea's been off for as long as
Paul, the last person to try it, has.
Only tuts are proffered on my return. Ah, which Isabel do we have in
this morning?

'Hi Isabel. Nice weekend?'

'You could've waited before going for coffee. People are always doing
that, leaving me out.'

Bad Isabel. Her nature can be as brittle as her body, her temper as
quick to flare as her famous headaches. Perhaps Isabel's neuroses
result from a haircut and physique of a malnourished seventies
footballer. Trouble is, Good Isabel is as tiresome as Bad Isabel and
also resembles a suntan stretched over a unisex arrangement of
bones.

'Sorry. Didn't mean to miss you out.'

'Oh, don't worry about me, no one else does.'

Isabel takes her bottle of handcream and smears it into her palms,
like a doctor preparing for a birth.
Gradually, the office comes to life; the muddy, grudging steps of
conversation, the clapped-out train rhythm of the photocopier, the
strained efforts of the fax machine to produce something worth the
paper it's mangling as the printer squeals a report of a report for a
manager of a manager.
Isabel makes her usual contribution by talking to herself.

'All very well for them. Twenty thousand pounds, twelve point five
percent, twenty-six. I keep telling them. Always me all the
time?'

We plot against Isabel, each and every one of us. I don't know why the
Isabels talk to themselves, and I've a feeling I don't want to know.
(How do you know the others don't think you're paranoid?)
Now it's nearly ten, nearly the time to be late. The office waits for
Martin, jester, Casanova and life and soul of whatever party he happens
to gatecrash. Hold on, I hear a drum roll, see the trail of a
spotlight, taste a scent of anticipation?
The doors crash open and Martin is framed by the space they leave
behind. He poses, arms akimbo, groin pushed oh-so slightly out, with a
smile the wedge cut from a ball of cheese. A pinstripe shirt has a
garish comedy tie for a spine, which lies on top of what will one day
be a bonny bouncing beer belly. Martin makes a show of looking at his
chunky, multi-functional sports watch - odd, as he never seems to
notice the time.

'Morning Harry! Morning team! Morning desk! Morning terminal! How are
we all?'

'Marty old son, how the bloody hell are you?' says Harry. 'Better than
the football, I hope.'

'Town won, didn't they?'

'Yeah, bunch of prats don't know what they're doing.'

Sylvia cracks open her face.

'Maaaaaartin! Get a shag over the weekend?'

'Course. You know how it is.'

'I know you've got a tiny one.'

'You know that's not true, Sylv!'
Martin's penis is the most discussed body part in the insurance
industry, which covers a lot of twats, nobs and arseholes. Steve makes
a v-sign behind Martin's back and Isabel scowls at his good weekend,
but Martin is too busy being popular to notice any unpopularity.

'Martin, how are you on this fine day, sir?' says Carl, who talks to
Martin because he thinks it makes him one of the lads, which it
doesn't.

'I'm fantastic Carl. The only reason I'd get as married as you is to
give my nob a rest.'

'You'll get caught one of these fine days. I can see you wallpapering
the nursery now?nice, even strokes are what you need, then - '

'James, you will not believe the weekend I've had. Scored in the footy
Saturday, scored in the pub, got pissed, had a shag, kicked her out to
play cricket Sunday, knocked up a few and sunk a few after.'

Martin fumbles around in the depths of his ever-present sports
holdall.

'Well?I?saw some friends,' I say. 'Listened to my new CD?had a drink
or two.' (It's quite clever, the way you lie and tell the truth
simultaneously. Try doing it while drinking a glass of water).

'Yeah, I used to wank a lot as well,' he says, biting a block from a
chocolate bar. 'Don't think I've had one since I was fifteen, unless
some bird's doing it for me. "Look, no hands!"'

'Just because I'm - '

Martin picks up the phone.
'Dickie! Martin. Are we still on for the old five-a-side
tonight?'

I abandon my work to talk to Steve.

Chapter 5

Despite being my closest ally in the department, Steve could be
considered cool; his clean, photogenic features count in his favour, as
does his tactfully trendy suit and hairstyle of such continental
modernity it must ache at its owner's long, pale Englishness. This
doesn't earn him office cred though, as he's attended college and
remembered what he learnt there. This makes him one of what the others
refer to as, 'the others'.

'Steve, interesting weekend?'

'Yes yes, busy bees were we. Attended the latest Woody Allen; we had
to go Saturday, it was only on for two days. Did you go? Excellent, I
thought?'

'Er, yeah. One of his best. How's Sarah?'

'When is she ever less than marvellous? Took her to a Bach recital
yesterday, we always go back to Bach. Ever been?'

'No, not got round to it yet. Bought The Holden Caulfield's new one
though. Not as good as the last one. Best gig was when I went to
Mindset, at Brixton Academy once.'

'Who? I don't - '

Steve's phone rings. Along with Mary, Cally and Greg, Steve takes most
of our incoming calls. Individual clients can still get through to the
rest of us, so there's no opportunity to relax. (You will one day. Just
keep up the good work).
I return to my desk, all refined and Steve-ish.

'Hey James,' says Martin 'You and lover-boy talking about me
again?'

'No, actually, we were discussing Bach and Woody Allen.'

'Wood? Had that last night, put it to good use!'
Martin bares his grin-shaped teeth and Sylvia, who Steve once said is
popular in the same way as Stalin was in post-war Russia, makes a sound
that might well be laughter.

'Woody Allen. He's shit,' says Sylvia.

'Steve says he's good,' I reply.

'He's shit.'

The office smokers, led by Harry, slope off to feed their habit one
last time before the 10am curfew, smug at their little joke with
mortality, a distraction from life that shortens their life.
They return, and we're all slotted into position. The day is less
clanking, a lubricated bike chain of minutes and hours. The evening
beckons, music begins to play and the sofa radiates maternal love. (Why
not practice your guitar tonight? Or talk to Zoe or go to a gig with
Jill?) Yes, only seven hours until it's only four days to the weekend.
(After which you'll be back here, thinking the same thoughts as you are
now). Just keep going, is all I need to do. Difficult, when you're sat
at a desk all day. (If you're so free, why not just get up and leave?)
You're the one who should leave! (What, and leave you on your own? And
how can I leave when won't let me out?)
The fax machine rings - and rings. The collective office aura twitches
with irritation. I'm not fixing it, not after the incident with
Douglas. He still drones on about it now, if I haven't spotted him
first.

'Someone fix that bloody thing,' snaps Harry, like an impatient
clapperboard. 'Gets on my bloody nerves, ringing all the time.'

Harry turns his limited attention to Martin and Sylvia.

'Oi, you two,' he says, nodding them over. 'Something to tell
you.'

Although there are fourteen of us in Harry's team, he's only concerned
with Sylvia, Martin and most of all himself. Sex, in its rude, British,
'sensational saucy Daily Tabloid survey' variety, is the usual topic of
conversation; they talk about it so much, I wonder if they ever do it.
Sometimes, they do raise themselves to topics as worthy as Angelica
Softcloud songs or quiz shows starring Julian Notgaye.
As I clear the fax machine of its constipation, I hear them giggling
like schoolchildren in a biology lesson. My back prickles, as - one of
them mentioned dinosaurs, just then, didn't they? The glass case forms
around me, only for the fax machine to suddenly excrete a ream of shiny
paper; the words on the fax are stretched, as in a long-sucked stick of
Blackpool rock, making the message unreadable. More laughter makes my
nerves pingle and jump.

'Why don't they get on with some work?' mumbles Isabel to
herself.

They don't have to. The gang looks after itself, the three of them
forming a self-protecting, self-serving one.
I follow Harry's example and stop work to check my e-mails.
Despite living on the edge of the twentieth century, we drones only
have access to Knotcastle Insurance's no frills, 'shareholder value'
Intranet website and can only send messages to other members of
staff.
Only two messages so far today; one to the team from Harry, the other
from Mike Watkins, who gives us the lofty view from Senior Management
every Monday morning and it says a great deal about how interesting a
view it is that I choose to read Harry's message instead.
It's the agenda for Friday's meeting of area managers and here's what
it should say:
1) Half-hearted greetings and pretence of liking people you moan about
for the rest of the week.
2) Whining on about how much work your team has to do, and
demonstrating this with charts and diagrams you've spent a whole week
preparing on Microsoft PowerPoint.
3) Update on why latest deadlines for new systems have been missed,
systems that are already out of date, may never be implemented and will
be superseded by another set of new systems, which will also miss their
completion deadline, due to the amount of people drawn in to get the
original set of systems to meet the latest deadline.
4) An acronym of some sort, like IKTNG, VLAC, SP01 or QMAF, and no one
knows what it is or what the letters stand for, perhaps they don't
stand for anything, but no one dare ask on case they look stupid, oh
dear GOD.
5) Who'll report to Senior Management this week? (Lots to be
drawn).

I delete the agenda, ignore the Watkins missive (I'm not that bored
yet) and look forward to Steve's first joke of the week.