A desk full of papers, a phone that doesn't stop ringing. Questions from colleagues, an erratic filing system that has somehow grown life of it's own. The copier working overtime, beeping every few minutes to tell me that there is a problem.
I open the door and solemnly leave this world behind me. I slowly descend the stairs before arriving at the solitude of the gents' cloakroom. As one of only five men in the building, and with three out on the road, I should be able to spend five minutes undisturbed. Five minutes of peace. Five minutes out of earshot of the tannoy. Five minutes without being questioned about clients. Fives minutes without being questioned by clients, by trainers, by my seniors.
An involuntary curiosity has moved my hand to my face and I've found myself staring at my thumb. There's a permanent scar just above the corner of my fingernail. It's a memento from my time at University. While my thumb was already in plaster I succeeded in opening a tin of beans, but I also succeeded in opening the top of my thumb by slicing it on the razor-sharp tin lid. I look toward the knuckle of my thumb I'm reminded that my thumb is not where it should be. Another reminder of my time at University, this one of the time my football team-mates decided to throw me into a bush. Only they missed and threw me over it, on to the concrete the other side.
I'm staring at my palms. I don't remember them being this tired-looking, this haggard, this wrinkly. I guess I'm ageing. I look in the mirror and suddenly things make sense. I think of pictures I have seen of my Father as a young man. I think of how he looked when I left the house this morning. I look in the mirror and what I see is, I guess, what happens in between. Somehow I had never imagined the link between the two. Subconsciously I'd always thought you were young, and then you were old. I guess the part in between is called life, although I use the term loosely when describing my existence.
I suppose I have a collection of memories. After all, that's all life is really, isn't it? I have the scars as reminders of the fun I had in the not-so-distant past, although right now they serve only as reminders of how little fun is bestowed upon my existence in the present. I don't want my life to pass my by, yet ask me a question about what I've done with my life in the last five years and I'll struggle to give you a worthwhile answer. Sure, I've been moderately successful career-wise, but it's hardly stood me in good stead right now. Yes, I've bought a car, but I'm still living at home - restricted by debt.
But most of all, what hurts more than anything, is that at 28 years old I've STILL never been in love. Uh-oh, not this train of thought again...
The hustle and slurry of the office suddenly seem like a nice distraction. I walk back up the stairs, hearing laughter and chatter on the middle floor. I reach my desk and tidy up a few papers. I clear a few items out of my in-tray and turn to face my colleague who is calling me
"It's only four weeks until Christmas!"
Great. I can't wait.
