National novel writing month (first chapter, no edits i have to bung this out very quickly)

Chapter One

Joe didn't go for the whole breakfast thing, he woke up, in his bed (although the sofa was also a favoured nesting place) kicked off the duvet, and walked naked into the kitchen. He flicked the kettle on, grabbed his favourite mug, he couldn't drink tea out of anything else, whacked a Darjeeling tea bag in there, waited for the boil, poured the water into the cup, and waited, usually scratching his arse, for about 3 minutes. Then took the tea bag out, put it in the handy hackney recycling bin, and carried his tea into the living room. Switched on the TV, grabbed his packed of cigarettes from the arm rest of the sofa, sipped the tea, sparked up a cigarette, and then for the first time in the day, actually had a thought. He had been on autopilot until that first drag. Usually his first thought was "I must really give up fucking smoking

Once that thought had been thought, expressed, it was disposed of, until it's regular arrival in the morning, best to get it out of the way at the start of the day, so he didn't have to worry about thinking it, the rest of the day.

Today was the same as any other, do the not doing the breakfast thing, have a bath, iron a shirt, find some socks and pants, grab the jeans and head off to work.

Work, it paid the rent, it paid for beer, it paid for drugs sometimes, it paid for cigarettes, and it paid for his existence. He didn't enjoy it. He had never been very ambitious, he had done the university thing, worked there, got a degree, enjoyed it mostly, made some mates, shagged about a bit, then left 4 years later with a degree. The only difference he had yet seen was that his mother wrote to him and put BA after his name. Do all mothers do that? He worked in a local housing office, dealing with tenancies, he had been doing the same job for about 8 years, never bothering to go for promotion or even going for outside jobs. He had seen younger people coming in, making an impression, getting promoted over him quickly, and then disappearing as all sorts of exciting job opportunities presented themselves. He despised them all, as if they were guilty for having ambition, of wanting to better themselves. He would run into them from time to time, as it was an incestuous world, and see them in more expensive suits, driving better cars, having vision, and job titles like "training co-ordinator, "Service improvement manager "new business development manager, and being immensely under impressed.

Fuck, he thought way too much, if he didn't think so much, maybe he'd have gotten off his arse and got a better job. Still there were compensations, he met a lot of weird, wonderful, and frustrating people on a daily basis.Listened to their stories, tried to sort them out, and invariably failed, but hey, it was the taking part that counted.

It was late when Joe left for work, it always was, he always fucked around when he was getting ready, always left late, always arrived late. The various managers he had had over the years didn't seem to mind (well apart from that one) as he tended to come in every day without fail, never took sickies. It was definitely a catholic guilt thing, his mother had never let him take sick leave when he was at school, this followed him into university when he made it to almost all his lectures (unless they were stupidly scheduled at 8.30am). Today was no different, he would get in, and he would work, grind out the hours until lunch time, and grind them out again until home time. He would go to his favourite cafe at lunch-time have the usual sandwich (roast beef, tomato and onion) and cup of tea, read the guardian, try the cross word, and then head back to the office. He always hoped that the days would be different, that there would be a crisis of some kind. He always reacted well to them, couldn't be arsed panicking, in fact he preferred it when people were shouting at him, threatening him, they were showing passion, anger, the potential for violence (although surprisingly, given that he was a smug twat sometimes, he had never been hit).

As Joe strolled, or was it ambled? into the office, he was greeted by the ashen face of his manager, Peter, who was another of those super -confident housing professionals, who worked their arses off trying to get away from actually having to deal with tenants. One more promotion and he would join the glad handlers, seeing people at corporate events, shaking hands, promising them that he would look into their problem, first thing, and then handing it to Joe to sort out. Peter was a prize cunt, to be honest.

"She's here he said, his ashen face looking more and more panicky.

"who? Joe replied, knowing exactly whom he was talking about, but enjoying the whole ashen face thing.

"Ms Carpenter

"Oh

"Can you see her, she's asked for me, but I have a lot on my plate this morning Peter's plate consisted of writing boring reports, punctuated with pretty graphs.

"Well I do have a 10.00 appointment coming in, a transfer form to complete

"I'll get one of the others to cover for you

"You seem to have all the bases covered Joe knew he would end up seeing her, actually wanted to see her, wanted to see what sort of murderous rage she was in today.

"I'll have a quick smoke beforehand Joe exited before Peter could say anything, and nipped out into the car park, where another wastrel was just coming in, Barry was actually someone Joe genuinely liked, he couldn't be arsed with the job, took a load of sickies, but was a real charmer, and excellent to get pissed with.

"Is Peter around Barry asked as he stuffed the remains of a bacon sarnie down his gob. Barry liked to avoid Peter, he was constantly inventing appointments so that he could be leaving the building when Peter was after something, information, a report, he liked to get Peter in a state, before handing him a report he'd completed days before. He thought Peter was a prize cunt as well.

"He's in there, panicking in his little prince of panicking way Joe lit another cigarette, to enable Peter to panic some more, and to get Ms Carpenter into a right old mood, he felt he needed a rant from her to start the day off in the right way.

Joe dropped the cigarette, and ground his boot over it, punched out the code for the door entry pad and walked as slowly as he could, back into the office building, he saw peter, now the ashen look was gone, replaced by a flushed angry look, Joe liked that look as well.