Overtimemature

Have you ever watched the clock?

I mean literally watched it?

As if through the sheer magnitude of your desire for time to move at a quicker pace you can somehow channel the power to control the most uncontrolable force in universe. Yours is piercing stare of time control! Fuck you Einstein and your relativity crap I can get this show on the road with nothing more than my baby blues.

Well, if you have ever been foolish enough to entertain these possibilities let me tell you now that your chances of success are pretty much none existent.

I have been sitting at my desk in the world's dreariest little office on the coldest and wettest of typical British Autum mornings for precisely ten minutes. Yep, you heard me right folks. Ten. Sodding. Minutes. Not exactly an age but it sure as hell feels like one, especially when you consider the immense amount of mind control I have been using in my attemp to control time.

I am bored. I have no idea why I agreed to come into work on a Saturday morning. Clearly I must have been drunk at the time, which would suggest that I am not the most appropriate of worker bees as I shouldn't really have been doing the dance of intoxication whilst processing financial malarky! But hey, whatever gets you through the day I always say. And it's not like I fraudulently pilfer people's accounts to fund some kind of degredating alcohol dependency.

Soooo, where was I?

Oh yes, sitting at my desk with aspirations of being a Time Lord.

As it is a Saturday we are allowed to come into work wearing our own clothes (woo hoo!); which I always find is a very strange way to word this priviledge as who's clothes do they think I wear during the week? But ours is not to question why, ours it but to do and be bored out of our brains. Talking of brains, I am sporting my new t-shirt that I just bought off Ebay which bears the slogan "zombies dig chicks with brains". I find this very amusing as I like to consider myself rather geek-chic, and also spend a disturbing amount of time thinking about zombies.

Why?, you ask.

Well, quite simply because after many years of working in the mind-numbing world of finance I have come to the conclusion that being forced to look at numbers for seven and a half hours a day, five days a week (not counting Saturdays) basically melts your brain. Not all of it of course, as if this were to happen then managers might get a bit upset when their entire workforce complained of brain seepage from the ears. But I think it kills something in there that controls you ability to appreciate your imagination. In layman's terms, you become a drone. A slave to the all encompassing power of mathematics. I personally rebel aginst this imagination oppression by sneaking off to the toilet as often as possible to read a few pages of whatever book I am currently engrossed in. Which brings me back to zombies.

I am reading a zombie novel at the moment, and each time I take a toilet break to see how the little shufflers are doing, I return to my desk with happy daydreams of me with a shotgun taking out the "math's zombies". How much more rewarding my day would seem if Jane in investments suddenly groped her way around the desk partition, all drooling and moaning and looking to chow down on my cerebellum. I see myself spinning round in my wheely office chair, with no time to arm up, and placing a two-footed kick to her chest: sending myself sailing backwards on my chair across the office and out of her marauding zombie grasp.

"Jane!" I cry. "Noooooooooo!"

She has a husband and children. A house in some leafy posh road and a cat called Oscar. How could plain Jane be trying to eat my brain!

Now that her undead fingers are a suitable distance away (and I know I have got plenty of time to arm up as she is chasing me at about one meter an hour!) I leap from my chair and immediately scan around for a weapon. I am next to Rob Burrowes' desk, and he has an old-fashioned metal school ruler lined up neatly below his keyboard. It may not be a super cool machete or a good old sturdy axe but its kinda pointy so it'll do me!

Ok, so Jane is bewtween me and the door on the other side of the room. Not to mention all those desks and chairs and other office paraphanelia that I will have to traverse. But it's now or never.

"Sorry Jane, but your shift is over." I quip as I leap forward.

I sprint towards old shambly-boots with my (well, Rob's) ruler thrust out infront of me and before her own decomposing brain can rustle up a witty response I slice into her neck with incredible speed and skill. Blood and ichor spray out from the wound and narrowly miss drenching my spiffy new t-shirt.

It's like I was born to fight the hoards of the undead! Her head doesn't come off entirely but it's enough to take her down and I continue my sprint to freedom.

Go me!

Yeah, that would make for a cool day at work. Well not for Jane of course.

As I giggle to myself I look back to the clock.

Hey, I wasted almost another ten minutes in that little daydream.

That's pretty -

What was that noise?