‘You’re showing a lack of confidence in your product there, Wayne.’

‘Just being a realist, mate. I’m a one-man band. It’s hard to compete.’

‘That’s life, boss,’ I replied. ‘Little blokes like us can find it hard to make a mark on the world.’

‘Fuck off, Gary, you’re depressing me. And don’t call me little. Save that for yourself, shortarse.’

We fixed smiles onto each other for an extended period before he passed me my order. I said my goodbyes and left the shop for the short walk to the office.

The offices are situated in the top three floors of a Victorian bank. It’s a warren of corridors and staircases. The walls are white-painted Anaglypta wallpaper and the individual offices are all decked out with pale green carpet and dark wooden furniture. My office is on the second floor. On a hidden bit of architrave around its door I have written in tiny letters ‘large bananas’. I occasionally take a glance at it to cheer myself up.

My office is furnished with an old mahogany desk and chair, two wooden dining chairs for clients and bookshelves on either side of a small chimney piece. The old open fire has been replaced with a two-bar electric coal-effect fire. It pumps out a very directional heat towards any client sat opposite me at the desk. I usually turn it off if they seem the type that might get a sweat on.

My job is deadly dull. Its formal title is ‘Legal Assistant’. I got the gig because I graduated in Law six or seven years ago and then went on to fail my professional qualification exams on two separate occasions. I might take them again one day, but for now this job suits me fine. My work consists of taking initial statements from new clients, attending at police stations, completing legal aid applications, preparing simple wills and conveyances. Any old shit I’m asked to do, really.

I always love being in the office on my own. It almost feels a bit naughty, like you’re a burglar or a covert office standards inspector. It takes me back to my teenage years when I had the family home to myself and could waltz around like Rod Stewart in his Dusseldorf penthouse. I imagine that I am the boss and wander in and out of various offices inspecting the tat on the desks and the photos on the shelves. The silence is unfamiliar and transforms the atmosphere from a workplace to a museum of melancholy. The thought enters my mind that it would be a great place for an assisted suicide.