2003-08-05 - 10:59 a.m.

From the cheeseboard of Archduke Pableau Kickasseau, esq.

Alas, it appears that the enduringly palatable hedonistic pleasures of exotic travel are to be denied me for the remainder of this blessed month, and I am to submit myself to the rigours of the working day, in all its repetitive, cocktail-free tedium. I am to be firmly installed in the literary cesspool of the classified advertisements publication - my sadly ongoing patron.

A whole month, toiling like the common peasantry. Can you imagine? By way of empathy-garnering diversion, I present to you here the minutiae of the daily routine that you may pity my humble predicament and, in the terms of common parlance, feel my, as it were, pain.

I arrive already in a state of some discomfort, having mixed with hoi polloi on the underground tram system which worms its way through the fetid underground of our capital. Such is my distracted temperament that I must banish all thoughts of an immediate start to the working day lest it provoke my melancholia or palsy, instead busying myself with, perhaps, some correspondence in the form of electronic mail, or the surreptitious viewing of salacious lithographic materials that one of my compadres has heartily recommended via this very medium.

My splendid colleagues sporadically arrive as I tab furiously through the multiple screens to avoid detection, and I bid a cheery halloo to Angela from financial accounting, Steve the temporary clerical support operative and the rat faced urchin girl from marketing, who is not without her charms, let it be said. Indeed, her posterior can be remarked upon thus, if you�ll allow me to plagiarise a fitting epithet: her buttocks are more capacious than an elephant�s scrotum, and just as difficult to get your hands on.

My coworkers all arrive burdened with intricate brews from the furthest reaches of Starbucks and Seattle Coffee Company, despite there being a perfectly serviceable brew on the premises for no monetary outlay on their part. Evidently they are easily seduced by the exotica of the names, and enjoy the sounds of �Macchiato�, �Frappucino�, or �White with no sugar�, as they roll sensuously off the tongue.

My immediate superior will generally arrive at this juncture. He will be fresh with tales from some fiendish encounter in a late night hostelry or regale me with the highlights from last night�s televisual offerings, and I will nod sagely whilst setting my mind on more important matters, such as the hastening of luncheon. I may concede the briefest of attentions to such engaging turns of phrase as �she had great Teutonic norks�.

His analysis of political, sporting and aesthetic matters complete, he will then instruct me in the agenda for the day. Mostly it will involve my reworking the prosaic doggerel of that day�s incoming press releases, or to let my imagination roam unfettered and produce a charmingly distilled analysis of how it might be to purchase a second hand 1986 BMW, or any number of exhortations of the range of hand-me-down goods that litter our organ. Stolen video game consoles, stolen mobile telephonic devices, stolen bicycles, etc.

In the absence of satisfactory velum and quill, I must resort in these matters to the degradation of word processing. Though as my punting companion Msr Jacques Le Chat is often heard to spout forth after a few foaming ales, if you must deal with words, no-one should ever have to do anything so vulgar as to process them. It renders them seemingly on a par with those luminescent cheeses that our friends in the American colonies seem so inordinately fond of.

But I press on, and in the fullness of time, find myself unable to stave off the gnawing hunger pangs any more. I down tools, and with the thought of a savoury bap at the forefront of my mind, I sally forth into the unforgiving streets, in search of some attractive comestibles.

(to be continued�)