2003-08-07 - 2:32 p.m.

From the electronic computerised workstation of Conquistador Pablo Di Kiquasso...

(continued) And so to the spiritual haven of the lunching hour, and I spill out onto the grimy cobbles of our glorious capital, amongst the milling throngs. The street-cluttering denizens of my immediate vicinity are a diverse menagerie of the human species.

The grubby faced vagabonds reach out with expectant hands, and if my felicitous mood allows, I might drop them a shiny farthing so that they might purchase a steaming mug of tea, or a further alcoholic beverage that they might while away a pleasant afternoon loudly lambasting passers by with the invitation to �Cunt off!�.

Their ragamuffin avarice pales in insignificance, though, when stood next to the organised thievery of the Charity collectors, all luminous bibs and seductive smiles and �for only two pounds a month you could adopt an asthmatic badger�. I avert my eyes downwards and hurry past as the competing causes almost come to gratuitous fisticuffs over the passing trade in a most uncivilised manner.

At last I find myself ensconced in my regular trusty eatery, surrounded by such culinary temptations as Sausage and Chips, Egg and Chips, and Sausage, Egg and Chips. The vendors hawking these delightful repasts are east European flaxen-haired sirens of no fixed accent, but I forgo the offer of a seat at their table and order myself a morsel that I can hie me back to my work quarters, that I may contemplate the celebrity gossip at my leisure, and reassure myself that all bodes well for young Master Benjamin Affleck the thespian and his lavishly-buttocked Hispanic princess, the one they call J-lo.

I call upon the attendant wenches to prepare me a savoury bap, to be filled with an assortment of poultry, crudit�s, and brightly coloured condiments, going by the nom de menu of Chicken Supreme. I suspect its questionable supremacy is only apparent when compared to some kind of soggy potato, but its affordability is not to be sniffed at, and the servings are generous.

I retire to my employers premises, agog with culinary anticipation, all ravenous, clawing hands and salivating mandibles. My base desires satisfied, I retire to the company drawing room area, and relax with a copy of the latest edition of our parent company�s daily news digest. As I peruse the rabid moral outrage it spews forth on the subject of immigration, those with homosexual tendencies and how there are no decent people left to run our country, my mind wanders, and I find myself staring vacantly out of the window, the noise of construction and coworkers feasting on Kentucky Fried Chicken becoming the soundtrack to my daydreams.

Suitably refreshed, I throw myself into the rigours of the afternoon, my post-prandial activities mostly limited to yet more personal correspondence, perhaps with my housemate Baron Bruce Von Wickes, Mme Robin St John Smythe or La Marquesa Jennifer Pudenda di Pissante. Through learned discourse, we rapidly achieve an intellectual slant on the pressing issues du jour, such as amusing euphemisms for menstruation, the mental subnormalities of our coworkers or the pleasing physical attributes of prominent public figures.

This whiles away a surprising amount of time, and it always comes as a nauseating jolt when my immediate superior interrogates me as to my present progress. I answer him affably, informing him that I am �on the case� and that �my computer has been playing up�. His reply is usually implies no small amount of disappointment at my work ethic, and my excuses rarely butter any parsnips with him.

That said, he eventually takes his leave and I am left to my own devices, hurriedly plagiarising anything I can find on the world wide web that would serve my editorial purposes. It would be an untruth to say that my heart sinks as the evening bell tolls for the end of my shift � rather it soars like that of an opium fiend on imbibing �some really good shit�, and I retire to my lowly garret, at once filled with thanks for this period of heady relaxation in front of prime time television, but overcast by dread at the horrors that the next morning brings, when the abhorrent process repeats itself, the coming day gaping with all the charm and appetising qualities of some pribbling flap-mouthed codpiece.

More, as they say, anon.