I am seated in the writers chair. My thoughts centre on the desk to my left. Last week this desk occupied, now however it is not. His name was Peter. He supported Liverpool FC and had a girlfriend called Kim. His desk is no longer occupied.

There is no mention of his absence by my Line Manager. In fact there is no mention of his absence by anyone. There is emailing back and forth. Rumors and speculation inevitably leads to a flurry of paranoia. I keep quiet.

The office has officially reached a state of paranoia. The flurry of emails arrive in my inbox in such a rate sufficiently responding to them all is impossible. My irritated co-workers retort angrily.

The clock is moving at an exorbitantly slow rate. The tension is becoming overwhelming. Rumors and speculation invade our thoughts and engulf our duties. A single bead of sweat on my forehead draws attention to the warmth of the office. Outwardly I remain tranquil, though inside my stomach is playing loop-de-loop.

I furtively scour the Internet fearing the inevitable. I gotta pay the piper myself should the worst happen. The echo of the phone reverberates in my eardrums. I have to get out, the walls are closing in. My breathing is becoming shallow and I'm feeling distinctly nauseous.

I rise from my chair and am confronted by Peter. "Alright mate, soz for bailing this morning. Had the dentist, drilling in your mouth ain't fun, what I miss ?"

I feel like I've aged about twenty years.

I confess that I wish to permanently be seated in the writer's chair.