7.03am: Oh God. You look like the love child of Judith Collins and the Grim Reaper. Get changed. You need to look tailored, professional, directional ...
7.04am: You look like a man.
7.05am: Now you look like a hooker.
7.59am: Back to the first outfit. Grab your bag, check your phone, run for the bus stop. Text from dad, "Have you remembered your lunch, flowerpot?" Oh course you've remembered your lunch. You packed it in the bag last night. Sniff in a superior manner. You're an adult. You're wearing pants. You're practically Hilary Clinton. If Clinton caught the Waiwera-Midtown bus, and had teeth bigger than her tits.
8am: Wow, that girl on the bus seat across from you is beautiful. She looks like Penelope Cruz.
8.05am: Stare at Penelope. Oh, she's gorgeous. She's breathtaking. She's ... frowning? She grabs the hand of the girl next to her. They both scowl at you. Oh God. They're a couple. Oh, Christ ... she thinks you're a homophobe.
8.06am: Frantically try to look visibly tolerant and left-wing. Write a haiku. Grow and wax a moustache into a reindeer sculpture. Do you have any tofu? Check your lunchbox!
8.07am: You left your lunch at home.
8.10am: Get off at the next stop. Walk the remaining 40 minutes. Remind yourself to keep an emergency Mike Hosking voodoo doll in your bag.
9am: Arrive at work dripping like a KFC family bucket. Run to the bathrooms. Whip off your shirt and stick it in the Dyson Airblade. (Thank Dawkins for Dyson.) Remind yourself that you need new bras; you look like you've wrapped your bits in toilet paper.
9.04am: Someone comes out of the cubicle behind you. Pretend that you start every morning with naked yoga. Make yoga noises. You sound like you're constipated. Make eye contact and silently, simultaneously agree to never mention this again.
9.10am: Go to your desk. Oh, your boss is here. Engage in polite conversation with them. ("Good morning, Verity" "Good! Fine! How are you!?") Concentrate on looking engaged and interested while they are talking to you. They leave. You realise that you put so much effort into looking engaged that you have no idea what they said. Bang the keyboard loudly for the next three hours. Shout nouns at 10-minute intervals. (London! The Yen! Multi-strawberry-stock-portfolio-career-meerkat!)
12.30pm: There's a group of girls next door going to lunch. You haven't said anything to them yet. Feel grievously hurt they didn't ask you to go too. Rip your shirt, fall to your knees, and cry, "I am interesting! I am! I know all the Brangelina children's names, ages, and dietary requirements! LOVE ME!"
1.30pm: You haven't gone to lunch yet. You don't have a swipe card so you can't leave the building. You can't ask your boss for the card because they're also shouting nouns into their cellphone. (Investments! Circulation! OSTRICH, OSTRICH, OSTRICH!) You decide that you don't need to eat lunch. Modern, high power executives don't eat lunch. They drink the tears of their rivals.
3pm: You're chewing the stapler. It has iron in it, right?
5pm: Your boss comes back over. God, he's attractive. Try to deduce from his clothing whether he's married. (Orange and navy polka dot shirt? He can't be ... it looks like he spattered Spaghetti Hoops on himself.) Listen intently for any mention of a girlfriend. Forget to listen to what he's saying.
5.01pm: Him, "So we'll touch base tomorrow to confirm our medium term strategy outlook?" You, "Um, sure, lets ... consolidate that structure. Giraffe. Yoghurt."
5.05pm: Board the bus home. Try to tag on with your Eftpos card. Sink into your seat and make a mental note of how long it is until you retire.
