After lunch Charlie, Gillian, Andrea and Caroline and I talk about Cheryl Cole. 'Did he cheat on her, that Ashley footballer husband?' 'Yeh,' says Caroline. 'How could anyone cheat on Cheryl Cole? What the fuck's wrong with the man?' I say. 'They all do it,' says Charlie, 'Look at Beckham and that Rebecca thingy?' 'Are you talking about that squalid Rebecca Loos?' I say. 'Yeh,' says Charlie, 'She's amoral,' 'She'd literally 'Do' anything,' I say, 'remember when she wanked that pig off on TV? I wouldn't even do that drunk,' 'Not on camera, anyway,' says Charlie and we all laugh.

A woman whose behaviour I can only describe as self-pity-by-proxy, calls chasing a left-handed pen she's ordered for her son. 'It should be here, I promised him. All his friends have one and he's had to go to school today without. You know it's hard enough being left handed,' she whimpers, as if the child, polio-stricken, was dragging himself pen-less to school on callipers, 'and now he has to wait for his pen,' 'Delivery is 3 to 5 days, Madam,' I say. 'I'm disgusted.' she spits, her outrage, which I'm enjoying, peaking with her slamming the phone in my ear.

This afternoon I get a series of bitches on the phone, one after the other. The first one carps on about a bag that should have been delivered to her this morning but on checking the system I find her orders been cancelled. 'You mean I've been waiting here all day for a bag that's not even been sent?' Fucking genius, I'd like to screech down the phone at her but I don't because I've worked out that nothing increases an irate customer's rage more than a simple answer. 'Correct, Madam,' I say, falling silent to her enjoy indignant tsking.

Arriving at work this morning I see the big meeting room behind my desk is full of unfamiliar people. 'We got the bosses from head office in,' Sharon calls out to me as I go into the kitchen to put my lunch in the fridge, ' so you need to... y'know....' 'What,' I say, 'not use the pot plants as a toilet, not get drunk on my lunch break?' Sharon laughs. 'Just keep the office tidy,' she says. 'Sure,' I say putting my bananas in the cupboard instead of leaving them lying around rotting on my desk like most days.

'Maybe you don't understand me,' the condescending cunt interrupts, 'I want to know when it comes out of my account, weekly...monthly?' 'Like I said, Sir, £5.10 a month over 25 months,' 'So it's monthly then,' he tsks, 'that's all I wanted to know,' 'Right, Sir,' I say, 'I need to take some details. What's your home address?' '69 Mungrell Street, Merdham, Acklington,' he says. 'How are you spelling Acklington, Sir?' I ask just to wind him up. 'A.C.K.L.I.N.G.ton,' he says, voice rising, 'like it sounds,' 'Might have been A.Q.U, Sir,' I say,' 'Oh, might it have been?' the bastard shouts.

What I can only describe as a patronizing Northern prick calls up the animal charity line. 'I'd like to do it then,' he says. 'Would you like to sponsor or make a one off donation?' I say. 'Well, when's it come out of my account?' he says gratingly. 'I can't tell you the exact date, Sir,' I say, thinking I bet your children hate your guts. 'but it's £5.10 a month for 25 months,' He tsks. 'I want to know when it comes out of my account,' 'Like I said, Sir, I can't tell you the exact date as...'

'I went in to the disabled toilet,' I tell Gillian and Andrea when I get back from doing my latest wee. 'I always go in there,' Andrea says, 'it's really sunny and bright,' 'I've often thought about going in there,' says Gillian, 'but I've always thought, I dunno, it's sort of... grubby,' 'Oh no, I think those other toilets, the main ones, are grubby,' says Andrea. 'Well,' Gillian whispers, 'I finally went into the disabled toilet today and guess what? There were drops of wee on the seat, 'Eeeewwww, yuk,' cries Andrea. 'I wonder whose drops they were?' I say.

After lunch I take a phone call for Sharon E who's elevated the state of being busy to an Olympic sport. 'Hello, can I speak to Sharon?' says the voice, 'I'm just returning her call,' 'I'm afraid she's not at available at the moment,' I say as I spin round to see Sharon's chair empty. 'Oh, okay,' says the voice, 'but maybe you could help,' 'Okay, I can try,' I say. 'I'm starting Monday and I know it sounds silly but, well, what should I wear?' 'Well,' I say, 'on your first day we usually ask that you wear a bikini.'

After Clare finishes telling us a story involving a handsome accountant, sex, mud, a flatmate called Claudio, and a bicycle being stolen from outside a pub, she tells us she had a fight with her husband on Thursday morning and threw to top of an aftershave bottle at him. 'I launched it at him screaming "Nobody walks away from me"' she says, 'and then I went back inside, got one of his fucking shirts and a pair of his jocks and threw them at him too and told him not to fucking come home. And guess what? He fucking didn't.'

Clare takes another call from the woman who, yesterday being the anniversary of her daughter's death, made a large donation to the animal charity. 'Oh, bless,' I hear Clare saying. 'Oh, bless,' she repeats a few seconds later. 'Oh bless,' she says again following a few moments of silence. This oh-ing and blessing goes on for almost 20 minutes until Clare finally hangs up and says, 'She just told me her daughter died from drinking because her husband and best friend ran off together,' 'I had a best friend like that.' calls Julie from the other end of the office.

Monday morning and Sharon's got the new phone-answerers in the small meeting room, inducting them into call center life. 'He's got a pretty face,' I say to Lucy about the only male there, a longhaired, handsome, young man in a thick dark coat.'Oh, shut up,' Lucy says looking in through the window at him, 'he does not,' Suddenly Lucy starts to blush. 'Oh my God, Lucy', I say, 'you're blushing,' 'It's because,' Lucy leans forward and whispers, the red of her cheeks intensifying the ginger highlights in her hair, 'just as I looked in, he stared back and smiled.'

New-guy Nad and me are in the kitchen making tea. 'You liking your new job here?' I say. 'Bit busy with Suzy away, but it's good,' he says. 'Good,' I say. 'Yeh,' he says. Then we stand there silently while the kettle boils until the smell from the sink, which has been giving off a bad odour for months, becomes obvious and, because I don't want Nad to think I've farted, I say - 'Jesus, can you smell that? It smells like shit down here,' 'All I can smell is coffee,' says Nad. 'No, Nad,' I say, 'it smells like shit.'

Alison's sick and there's no one to work the late shift so Sharon sends Emma around the office asking for someone to cover it. 'Anyone feel like doing an extra shift,' Emma says, circling our computer island. Everyone stares up at Emma, looking purposely bewildered, as if she's just made the request in ancient Hebrew. 'It's £14 an hour,' Emma says hopefully. No one budges until finally I relent. 'Oh for fuck sake,' I shout,' I'll do it but I want £28 an hour,' 'Fat chance, luvvy.' Sharon laughs as she passes me on her way to the hot-drink dispenser.

In between calls we're tearing filled tickets from raffle books and boxing them ready for drawing. 'I've accidentally ripped loads in half,' says Zoe, the new girl who last week I suggested wear a bikini on her first day. 'I spent half an hour last night Sello-taping the ones I ripped back together,' I say. 'Is it okay if I use scissors to cut them instead of tearing them off?' asks Miles, the longhaired handsome boy who on his first day had caused Lucy to blush. 'I really don't mind if you want to nibble them off.' I tell him.

Amanda's back from holiday laden with American sweets. Martin has a box of Nerds, which he shares with me throughout the morning, and Charlie has a super-sized bag of jellybeans in her draw and I snatch handfuls while she's out smoking. By the afternoon my stomach is so bloated from the sugar that I involuntarily fart while a senior a manager from the warehouse is standing by my desk talking to Charlie. The fart, which makes a pop-pop sound like the exhaust on a low-horsepower car, smells so foul that I'm ashamed and alert Charlie to its presence via email.

Friday morning Amanda, who last night had a body-wrap and lost 6 and a half inches, and Charlie and I discuss methods of fat reduction. 'Body-wrap,' says Amanda, 'an inch from each thigh, 3 from the waist,' 'Kerry Katona?' Charlie says, 'She had liposuction and then went back on her normal diet of crisps and 2 weeks later she almost doubled in size, 'Don't you eat crisps?' I say to Charlie. 'Yeh, loads,' she says, 'but I also eat vegetables,' 'Um, logic-wise,' I say, 'isn't that a bit like saying you shoot-up a lot of heroin but also drink water.'

Alex is at his desk holding aloft my copy of the God Delusion that I've lent Miles.
'Is this yours? Alex says.
'Yeh,' I say.
'Really?' says Alex.
'Yes,' I say, 'why?'
'I can't believe it,' he says.
'Why? I say, thinking Alex is weirded out that I'd own a book with God in the title.
'How did you go about it? I mean, did you take it somewhere and have it printed out?'
Then I see Miles laughing and the penny drops.
Miles has told Alex that I wrote the God Delusion. And it seems Alex has believed him.

Andrea and the woman who I thought was a warehouse manager but who it turns out isn't, are discussing Trick-or-Treating.
'I like it when my kids go out,' says the non-manager, 'but I hate it when other kids come to my door begging,'
'I think it's dangerous sending kids around the streets asking for sweets,' says Andrea.
'I hope they come to mine,' I say, 'I'll dip some boiled sweets in LSD and hand them out,'
Andrea laughs and says 'I never know whether you're being serious,'
'Check the newspapers the day after Halloween,' I say, 'and you'll find out.'

Steph's decided she isn't going to the supermarket now so can't get my baked beans.
Inquiring around the office I find that Joanne is going and could get them
'Heinz?' she says.
'Course,' I say, 'though Sainsbury's aren't bad,' 'I'm not going to Sainsbury's,' Joanne says, 'so Heinz will have to do,'
'What if the shop doesn't have them?' I say.
'I'm going to SPAR, they should do,' she says.
'Yeh,' I say, 'SPAR's a supermarket for the poor so they'll have them,'
Joanne laughs.
'Anything else?'
'A 1/2 bottle of wine,' I say, 'to get me through the afternoon?'

Miles holds a bag sunflower seeds out to me and asks if I'd like some.
'Where do you get such a big bag of them?' I say taking a handful.
'The cupboard at home. My mum's right into nuts and seeds and fish and stuff,' he says.
'Seeds make me windy,' I say.
'Me too,' Miles says, 'yesterday was terrible,'
'It's because little bits of seed get lodged in the kinks of your pooh-tube and ferment,' I tell him, 'so you need to chew them well,'
'Oh, right,' says Miles holding the bag of fart-making seeds out to me again.

I'm wanting to order a first-aid kit,' says my day's first caller, a shrill Irish scoutmaster.
After boring me insensate with his long-winded, finicky questions, I get as far as inputting payment details when he says he'd rather pay by invoice.
'Sorry, Sir,' I say, sighing, 'I'll need a credit card or you'll have to order via head office,'
'Heavens to Betsy, I'm not suffering through this process again,' he shrieks dropping the phone and fumbling for his credit card.
'You'll need that fucking kit,' I whisper down the phone at him, 'after your own troop tries to kill you.'

There's a potential client in today so to make the call center look busier than it actually is, Martin and Joanne are sat at my computer-island pretending to answer phones.
'Did you see on the news the other day,' I ask them, 'where they found a baby factory in Romania?'
'Really?' says Martin.
'They had like a stable of breeders and were selling the babies for £75 quid a pop,'
'Jesus!' says Joanne.
'Yeh. But they couldn't have been very good quality babies,' I say, 'I mean, they couldn't possibly have fed the mothers properly for 9 months on £75.'

'You having baked beans today?' Joanne asks me as lunchtime nears. 'Nah, couscous,' I say. Joanne starts poking her tongue in and out, simulating vomiting.
'What do you like, then?' I say.
'I'm a food nightmare,' says Joanne talking about her pernickety food habits, 'I wouldn't eat anything as a child,'
'What about now, then,' I say.
'Um,' she says, frowning and thinking, 'I eat mainly potatoes,'
'Dull,' I say, 'I'd eat anything. I'd like to go on an eatathon in South East Asia and try stuff like gingered parrot wing with fried ox ovaries in peanut sauce and rice.'

'There's a song stuck in my head, that one that goes- <
It must have been love,
But it's over now,
It must have been good,
But I lost it somehow...
Who sang that?' I say turning to Sarah.
'I never remember the names of those old bands,' Sarah says, 'but my dad does.
He loves his power ballads,'
'How old's your dad?' I say.
'60,' says Sarah, 'that's his era of music,'
'The era of the great REO Speedwagon?' I say, singing,
I'm gonna keep on luvin you,
Cos it's the only thing I wanna dooooo-ooo-ooo-ooouh,
I don't wanna sleep....'

Tracking a parcel, I'm stuck in a holding pattern with the courier's call center.
'They're not valid,' says the operative, when I give her the account and tracking numbers, 'but I'll check with my supervisor, bear with me,'

I'm put on-hold.

'That's the wrong account code,' she says, coming back online,
'Oh,' I say, 'let me pop you on hold and check with my supervisor,'
'Sure,' she says.
Double-checking, I find it's our only known code. 'Can't you find me via our company name?' I ask the operative.
'Don't think so' she says, 'but I'll pop you on-hold and check.'

A whiner calls up to order some pens.

'Couldn't you courier them to me?' she implores when I tell her they're despatched via post. 'I'm afraid not, madam,' I say.
'It's just that and it would be better if they were registered, the Royal Mail is dreadful and there's pilfering in our sorting office,' she says, a fat self-pitying sigh dripping from the end of her sentence.
'I'm afraid, Madam, we only send by post. You'd have to take up any Royal Mail shortcomings with Gordon Brown.'
Then I listen to her tsk and sigh until, unsatisfied, she hangs up.

'I saw a frozen feather on my way to work this morning,' I tell Zoe as I lean down and turn my computer on.
'Like, where? I mean, how?' Zoe says, frowning and blowing her nose.
'It was so cold this morning,' I say, 'and I was walking through the cemetery and looked down and saw the little feather on the path,'
'Oh,' Zoe says.
Then I lean across the red partition that separates our desks and say, 'I wonder why feathers don't freeze when they're on the birds. I mean, do feathers have a blood supply?'
'Dunno.' Zoe says.

Half an hour after Gillian asks me to come and see the piss on the disabled toilet seat, Joanne comes over and tells me to go and have a look in the first toilet.

'Do I have to lift the lid?' I say.
'Yes,' she says, 'have a look what's in there,'
Opening the door, the toilet's still warm with human presence and lifting the lid I see the bowl is filled with sodden, stinking, toilet paper.

Someone's dropped the kids off at the pool with too many towels,' I call out to Joanne who's standing in the hallway laughing.

'There's pee on the seat again,' Gillian says coming out of the toilet area toward my desk. 'No!' I say, 'how disgusting. I'm coming in to have a look,'
'Yeh, come on,' says Gillian.
Going in to the disabled toilet, Gillian points to the seat.
'Look,' she says, 'pee,'
Sure enough, there, on the dark blue seat, are 5 glistening beads of piss.
'Foul,' I say shaking my head.
'I know,' says Gillian raising her hands in exasperation, 'why can't they just clean it up?'
'Don't know, but I'm going to get a photo of it,'
'Good idea,' says Gillian.

Bored-shitless, I turn in my chair and stare into the small meeting room where the account managers are holding a pow-wow.
Arranged around the table are Charlie, Amanda and Gillian. Also in attendance are Steph from HR and Martin, Andrea and Caroline who, though not managers, assist the managers with overflow work.
Standing with her back to me, wearing a chiffon leopard-print blouse and drawing on a flip chart, is Sue.
It's never been clear to me what Sue does but she's so far up the chain-of-command that, while not a director, she's important enough to merit her own office.

'Have a good day-off?' I call to Joanne as she goes past on her way outside to smoke.
'Me and Andy went to the races,' she says.
'That your boyfriend?'
'Yeh, he's a jockey,'
'Wow,' I say, surprised, 'Is he really short?'
'Everyone asks that,' says Emma, who's hung-over and still wearing last night's makeup.
'How did you go walking home alone?' says Joanne, who sometimes brings me home, as darkness now falls just as we leave work.
'Fine,' I say, 'It's well lit by the cemetery. No one even looked like they were interested in raping or knifing me.'