I sink, my eyes glazing over. The stacks of paper sit stagnant on my desk. I'll attend to them tonight, I think, adding, Christ.
The hot Greek air is becoming unbearable. My fan doesn't work. I've a dull ache in my stomach. I smell strongly of tobacco, sweat and coffee.
My pay is six months overdue. In three weeks I'll be on the streets; I can't pay the rent. I'm weak and slow. I see him blaming it all on 'the recession' as he drives his Ferrari past me.
What is another worker to the boss, if he won't work?