Straight to You Page 0,8

tell when things are about to change.'

I too had a gut reaction about our conversation - I was sure that it was senility rather than intuition which was proving to be the deciding factor in the man's ideas and thoughts. I turned away from him and looked over towards the park gates, wishing that I could be walking through them and back to the office. I felt the man staring at the back of my head and, out of distrust, I turned back to face him.

'When you've seen as much as I have,' he continued with his throat hoarse and dry, 'you just get to know things.' He paused to wipe his sweaty brow with a weak, shaking hand. 'It's getting hotter by the day, son, and I don't think it's going to stop.'

'Don't be stupid, it's got to stop,' I protested. The man looked at me with an expression which seemed to be asking me for evidence to support my comment. Obviously, I was unable to find any.

I'm not sure whether it was my wariness of the old man or the things which he said to me that suddenly made me jump to my feet and start back to the office. There was no denying the fact that it was getting warmer with each passing day and although that in itself was not substantial evidence to suggest that the world was about to end, it was enough to start the first alarm bells ringing in my mind. The more that I thought about it, the more I began to read truth into the man's words. There was something about his voice which was honest and believable in a terrifying kind of way and, as I walked away, he shouted after me.

'Don't go, son. I haven't finished.'

I didn't want to hear any more.

'I've got to get back to work,' I yelled over my shoulder. 'It's been nice talking to you.'

'Don't waste your time there,' he shouted with his voice ragged and tired. 'There's not long left, you should be enjoying yourself.'

As I walked away, I could not help but think how right the man was in one way. Even if the world wasn't about to end and I was going to live for another seventy years, where was the logic in shutting myself away in the office each day and only managing to escape when I was too old to enjoy what was left? I thought back to yesterday and my conversation with Ian and realised how perceptive his comments had been.

I nervously looked over my shoulder to make sure that the man was not following me back to the office. The thought that I might one day become like him terrified me more than the prospect of the end of the world. Was that all I had to look forward to? Would I finally escape from my terminal career only to spend the rest of my days harassing people in the local park, or would I be destined to wait out my days in some damp, dingy flat?

I realised that the man was right. I should be out now, enjoying myself and living each day as it came along. And what about tomorrow? I'd only worry about that when it finally arrived.

When I returned to the office, the quiet of the morning had been replaced by frantic activity. The trays of work on my desk were full to overflowing with forms to complete and papers to sign and not one single member of staff seemed able to solve even the simplest of problems without first referring them to me.

I made a determined effort to clear my desk so that I could have an early night but throughout the afternoon I could not help dwelling on my lunchtime experience. The more I thought about the prison in which I worked, the more I came to realise that my cell was not the four walls within which I sat, but the whole system of civilisation which everyone was involuntarily and unavoidably trapped in. The more I thought about that, I became convinced that while the system could survive without me, I would find it difficult to survive without the system.

My efforts to leave early proved fruitless and, having worked myself into a deep, dark depression, I finally left the office at a little after eight o'clock that evening.

Chapter Four

I arrived for work on Wednesday morning in no better mood than the one in which I had left the previous evening.