Rush hour thoughts

The Overground train carries me and other souls quietly across the section of the Thames that indicates the end of the world: Richmond. The river stares boldly back at me. I know. I’m late.

The train slows and stops. As it does, it dawns on me that I should be ruling the world, right this minute. The sense of the idea warms my entire body, like waking up and realising it’s a Saturday.

I’d ban office work completely.

No, think of the economy.

I already know the friend I’ll trust with the world’s money. The one that gives me dating advice while we shop for the birthday present she’ll pencil down for her boyfriend to buy her.

I’d violently take over the current government and hire my friends to help me manage the Borough of Brent in a pilot scheme, a test, before running the world properly.

I’d write off third-world debt.

I’d ban Gerard Butler from acting ever again.

The walk to my office is a tranquiliser. Ahead of me is my desk, the pitter-patter of small talk with colleagues.

I’d make all offices open-plan with retractable roofs like Centre Court at Wimbledon.

I’m numbing, my brain setting itself to work mode. There’s a dull ache at the front of my head, like the remnants of a fight with J.

I could pull a sickie.

I hesitate at the entrance a split second too long. My boss spots me on her way into the building, looking a little tired.