As I wake to the ear-piercing screech of my alarm, I grumble and moan, my eyes refuse to unseal. The sweet moments until I remember the endurance and endeavour I will have to go through just to provide for myself. I peel myself from my tranquil resting place and wrestle my clothes onto my body. Toast burnt, tea cold, shirt creased, no more time. Now I face the battle of facing the noisy and congested London roads. An old couple in the car front of me crawl through Piccadilly Circus; the soft, soothing music of Michael Bublé circulating in my Benz carries me through, just. In a rush to get in on time I park on double yellows though I’m trying to pay for the consequences of doing that before. I cram the coins into the machine and chuck the ticket into the car. I pause for a moment and look at my prison of employment. A weak smile at the receptionist who informs me of the meeting I’m dreading, in which I have to present my half-finished, half-hearted proposition. The lift displays an “out of order” sign to my deep displeasure. I must know trek up ten flights of stairs, no doubt that it will take its toll on me. As I get to the fifth floor I am exhausted, I remove my jacket to reveal the perspiration under my arm. Struggling up the Everest of stairs I see a sign which reads “10th floor”, I let out a huge sigh as I realise I have completed the “Mission to the Tenth Floor”. I collect my scalding-hot coffee from the coffee machine only to burn myself and splash coffee all over my already stained and creased shirt. Making my way to my office I catch a glance of the goddess who is my PA, ‘familiarising’ herself with my colleague or “the opponent of my occupation”. The day drags through and I anxiously watch the clock, showing 16:57, just three minutes to go.

As the clock strikes five o’clock there is a feel of accomplishment, I’ve made it! Now I rush down the stairs, jump into my car, drive home and relax! That is until tomorrow morning!