Some mornings are fine. Six hours sleep, wheatgrass, coffee & crunch cereal, brisk walk down the hill, my wrecked shoes filling with rainwater. Then into reception, past the chatty young trainees to swipe my card past all the security doors, put my phone on mute and my coat on the rack.
Log in with 30 seconds to spare. I’ve got it worked out now. Then wait for the first call.
A ding in my ear. Actress’s voice – “Customer services.” Ding, ding, one, two, “Good morning, you’re through to James in customer services, can I confirm that you’re the principal cardholder?”
And so on. Take a break at 11 and then at 1. I’ve got 32 minutes of “personal time” but there isn’t a men’s toilet on my floor and the one on the floor below seems to be closed for cleaning. Shit.
At 1.30 I get a call from A A Gill. I pretend not to know who he is. Surprisingly he is meticulous in his politeness to me.
Then time for lunch. This is lunch.
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