text: It was Tuesday, again. &#x200B; Tuesdays were always especially anodyne for Mark. It was mainly the regularity of the whole thing. Wake up. Linger over a coffee, considering whether accountancy was really in God's plan for him. Drive to work. Team meeting. Coffee break. Lunch. Try to do some actual work in the 30 minute gap before the next meeting. Look at tables and graphs with some people he felt ambivalent about, and if he was lucky potentially witness an argument that was far too passionate to be about accountancy. Nod and say important sounding things at the right point. Try to blend in. Try to get by. Hopefully the work day would eventually end, at which point he'd be so tired of doing nothing that he'd go home emotionally distressed. Rinse and repeat. &#x200B; The beige aura of Tuesday permeating Mark's commute was so plain it was offensive as he gazed out of his car window. The sky was too bored to rain, preferring to stay grey and threaten the world with some interest. As a man in a large car (he assumed it was a man, despite the tinted widows preventing any vision of the driver) cut aggressively into the fast lane, a cacophany of horns rudely interrupted his daze. He wondered about everyone involved in the car incident. Where were they going at 8:33 on a Tuesday that was so important? Where did the big-carred man/woman (although it was probably a man) have to be so urgently? Did horning make his offfended peers feel better? The questions danced across his mind briefly as the morning radio droned in his ear. &#x200B; Mark wasn't particularly fond of the kind of people who present morning radio shows. As his car edged ever closer to the building where he would spend his day, he listened to the happy morning people discussing happy morning things and playing songs that were designed to make you believe that it might be alright in the end. Somehow they sat together every day and talked for hours at a time. \_Every\_ day. They must have been the only set of work colleagues that didn't discuss work more than 50% of the time. Mark couldn't avoid discussing fiscal matters in important tones with his own colleagues for more than 5 minutes at a time. He felt slightly jealous, but still sang along to the songs. Maybe it would, in fact, be a lovely day. &#x200B; As he pulled into the car park, he noticed a small toothpaste stain on his tie. His mother appeared on the dashboard, wagging her finger and lecturing him about putting his tie on after he'd eaten breakfast and brushed his teeth. He sighed, licked his thumb and rubbed at the stain after he parked in his usual space, reaching into the back seat for his jacket while simultaneously trying to brush his imaginary miniature mother from the dashboard. He got out of the car, sighed once more for luck, and walked into work. &#x200B; Joel was unfortunately coming into work at the same time. This was a problem because Joel was a prick. This impression of Joel hadn't been formed with a lot of data if Mark was being truthful, but he disliked being near him. Joel was aggressively happy, laughed too loudly at jokes that weren't funny ("...and then I said 'That's not a P60, that's P45!'"), enjoyed wearing non-standard shirt colours, rarely did any work and would talk at length about his diet and fitness regime when given the slightest opportunity. These were all problems. &#x200B; "Morning Joel!" Mark said, smiling with false positivity. &#x200B; "Hey man!" Joel replied, beaming. Mark assumed it was genuine. Prick. &#x200B; "How's your ongoing existence treating you?" &#x200B; Joel laughed. Mark had not been joking. "It's pretty great, man! I was actually just in Amsterdam at the weekend there with my girlfriend. Took a bit of a long weekend, know what I mean?" &#x200B; There was no ambiguity. Everyone knew what he meant. Mark laughed in a friendly way. "Oh yeah? I hear it's lovely, loads of bikes and all." &#x200B; "Mate, you've no idea. It's actually just like they say; look up, look down, look side to side, check your pockets, look into the next dimension and still get hit by a bike. Still beautiful when you're not dodging through them. The weed isn't bad either." &#x200B; "Aye mate, when in Rome in all." &#x200B; "You know it, boss. Can't go see the place and not partake a bit, know what I'm saying?" &#x200B; "Aye, definitely. See much else?" &#x200B; "Yeah mate just did all the tourist bits. Anne Frank's house was packed out like, queue down the street to get into a bloody attic. The missus wanted to see it though, and I traded her that for the Red Light District." &#x200B; "Aye I hear it's cool to see." &#x200B; They'd badged through the first door. This would be over soon. Mark's desk was close, and if all else failed he could stop at the coffee machine. He didn't like coffee. &#x200B; "You've no idea mate, it's class though. Bit weird like but still cool to see." &#x200B; "What'd your girlfriend think?" &#x200B; "What?" Joel replied, confused by the question. &#x200B; "What'd she think?" &#x200B; "I don't really know." Mark got the impression that Joel had monologued the whole way through the Red Light District. He briefly wished Joel's Red Light soliloquy had been recorded for his entertainment. &#x200B; "Fair enough. Sure I'll catch you later on, have a nice day" he said, stopping at the coffee machine. &#x200B; "See you later mate!" Joel replied cheerfully. Prick. &#x200B; Mark didn't particularly want a coffee, but still lifted a cup and made himself one to ensure his cover wouldn't be blown. The aged coffee machine rasped and spluttered as it was asked to do it's job, making sure everyone nearby knew it was working hard. Coffee trickled out and into the cup. He sipped it, since he'd gone to the effort of making it. It was incredibly average.