2.43pm

I was considerate enough to buy my own milk this morning. But using just half a litre of it on breakfast cereals has left me with a dilemma. What should I do with the remainder?

I decide that the most sensible course of action is to tip a good glug of it into a functioning air conditioning unit. I am then overcome with the sudden urge to offer charity to an ailing houseplant in the corner of the office. As I watch the parched soil gulping the milk down into the plant pot, a beautiful image flickers before my eyes: the plant as a full-grown tree, swollen to gargantuan dimensions, its trunk puffed up like some giant, calcium enriched ribcage.

1.50pm

An interesting development: the gent’s toilet has been cordoned off with an old cardboard box and a fire extinguisher. OK, it’s hardly ‘Police line: do not cross’, but I’m still getting off on the danger of it all.

10.30am

By sitting right back on the toilet seat and leaning forward so I am practically touching my toes, I can usually yield a thick streak of shit right down the back of the pan. If executed correctly, no solid waste need actually reside in water at the end of the motion.

Today’s effort has exceeded my wildest dreams. Glancing expectantly over my shoulder, I am thrilled to see that a whopping 85% of my faeces is sitting on the toilet seat itself, smiling back at me in all its dilapidated splendour. The rest has formed a gravity-defying sienna arrangement against the white porcelain.

Taking a generous amount of tissue paper, I proceed to wipe my mess around the seat in an expansive arc, being careful to remove as little of it as possible. Gagging, I hop into the adjoining cubicle – the most risky part of the whole operation – and clean myself up.

1.20pm

I must point out that I don’t confine my ‘habits’ exclusively to the workplace. I hone them there, of course, but I practice extensively in all terrains and situations. It makes for a more rounded individual. This morning, for example, I managed to spit directly into the fresh salad bar of a local supermarket. I can justify this behaviour by reminding myself that it’s all rubbish anyway: shredded GM produce smothered in angina inducing mayonnaise and hazardous food dyes. Ingesting a small amount of my spittle shouldn’t overly concern you if you are going to put that shit in your body anyway, in fact you’ll probably get a kick out of it.

You’ll be pleased to know I have perfected a foolproof CCTV-safe spitting technique: through tightly closed lips, idly scratching my nose for further cover while pretending to look carefully at the produce. To all extents and purposes I am just your average discerning customer harmlessly going about my business. The reality? I am single-handedly pioneering the collapse of the entire food hygiene industry.

12.05pm

Just to the right of my computer I have a large pile of books. This serves two very important purposes. Firstly it makes me look like I am interested, or at the very least, active in my employment. Secondly it makes a handy food store. Here I can squirrel away any leftover lunch miscalculations in relative privacy. Lifting the books gingerly today, I feel a shiver down my spine as I lovingly observe last Wednesday’s egg mayo sub – pressed nicely between a laminated book cover and my desk. I’m thrilled to see there’s a fine beard of blue and grey angel hair enveloping its surface. It’s an unexpectedly early, but nevertheless welcome, result. I carefully replace the books and wallow in the feeling of satisfaction caused by my findings.

11.47am

Gentlemen, we are at war

I will never cease to be impressed by the difference in floor colour I can create. It’s still a source of wonder to me after all these years. Entering the office this morning I am buoyed by the creeping stain on the wood floor which marks my ever expanding territory. Foodstuffs and personal emissions have been seasoning the wood for quite some time now. The result is a dark, oily residue with huge patches of salt discoloration. In the areas where cables prevent proper cleaning access, unidentifiable substances fester in varying states of decay. Old half-full takeaway cartons are tucked carefully out of sight of any inquisitive human eyes. It’s crucial that I minimise the likelihood of counter-productive action from potential do-gooders in my quest to encourage rodent infestation.

Curiously the state of my floor is never mentioned. Don’t let that give you the impression that maintaining such low hygiene levels is easy, however, it’s a daily struggle. A war of attrition has developed between myself and the meddlesome cleaners who constantly threaten to undermine my way of life, values and culture with their ignorance. I am comforted, however, by the knowledge that the floor will need specialist restorative attention way beyond their current puny level of expertise. The results of this particular conflict are plain to see. I am winning, but I will never allow myself to be tricked into complacency.

9.40am

I’m feeling quite civilised today. Wearing a clean shirt and taking a shower tends to help. I always avoid using harmful soaps and detergents during ablutions however – water is perfectly ample for the removal of salt and most fungus types in my experience. It’s noted that my journey to work is interrupted with more frequency than usual by the hungry gazes of the most filthy-looking harlots I have ever clapped eyes on. There’s no two ways about it: they are definitely undressing me with their eyes, willing me into their dirty duvets, crispy beach towels at the ready. I’m a fucking fanny magnet in a shirt. And I’m a complete fanny out of one as well.

3.40pm

Texture + wall = ridiculous nostalgia

The wall next to me is in a shocking state: dried spittle and catarrh, regurgitated nuts, chocolate, bananas and mackerel smeared, streaked and pebble dashed against the perfect counterpoint – a dark background. It’s like my personal exhibition space and I’m extremely proud of it. Studying it now brings happy memories and overwhelming warm feelings. Forgive an old fool a moment of sentimentality if you will, I’m just a man who enjoys his subject. I can feel my chest swell as I identify last August’s mackerel – the remains wiped in a circular pattern approximately four foot from the floor. Just further up and to the right there’s a slight damage to the façade and a small pile of masonry dust directly below it. This is testament to the fact that I have been punching the wall in a series of anger management exercises. These sessions have proven successful enough to persuade me to secure myself a pair of padded gloves so that I can continue the exercises in comfort while simultaneously lowering the risk of broken knuckles.

2.35pm

Terry returns smelling of beer and looking all pleased with himself. But my trap is laid. I scan the internal telephone directory for his number which I surreptitiously dial. Terry glances worriedly at the phone and his wristwatch… has he overshot his allotted lunch hour by crucial minutes? Terry is a prole – he doesn’t have a call screen – so he picks up and as he presses the handset to his ear he notices the bean paste in the cradle. Judging by the look on his face he has also just realised that he has cold, yellow bean residue stuck in his upper ear like jelly in a mould.

As you can imagine, I practically wet myself at the outcome. To celebrate, I allow myself one of life’s little pleasures: I hock one up loudly and grace the wall with it.

1.43pm

While my colleague, Terry, is out to lunch I take the reserved beans and carefully press a good dollop of them into his telephone earpiece, being careful to work the resulting mush as deep into the sound holes as possible. I replace the receiver, observe my work and decide that more food can actually be hidden in the earpiece. I add the remaining beans, working up a good paste in doing so and, finally satisfied with the quality of workmanship, replace the receiver.