(from notebook, written march 2004, presumably)

There's jokes and there's lies. I'm sitting in the yard outside a pub. When the doors open beer smells, smoke, yelling and laughing flood out before they swing closed and it's all muted again. The folks in the yard look up for a moment then get back to their pints and their newspapers. They're out here because they don't fit in there. Physically I mean, it's friday night and we're operating close to capacity. The yard is cold because it's only March (and the telly tells us the temperature is below average for the time of year) but it's full, mostly people sitting in twos and threes with rakishly loosened ties and bad lager. The just-off-workers. I'm one of those too but I'm sitting alone. The guy on the bench next to me is waiting for his wife (or lover, or "squeeze"), she came back a few moments ago with arms full of FCUK and Habitat carrier bags, now she's gone again. "You don't mind me leaving do you? I just need two more things." He doesn't seem to mind. He fetches another pint of dark beer from inside and for the first time I realise the newspaper his face is buried in is the Daily Mail. I immediately resolve to stop romanticising him in this prose.

I have a small brushed-metal badge. It was a gift from The Company, a mark of appreciation for five years service. It's in the shape of the The Company logo with the lettering embossed. I feel this has been forged especially for me and that makes me very proud. So much so that since receiving it my productivity has improved three-fold and I've noticed a marked increase in the respect I inspire in colleagues. That's not the best thing though, because at ten years of service an even greater honour awaits. Each year all workers who've reached their decade are invited for a meal - at The Company's expense - where you're granted an audience with the Company Don, something rank and file workers such as myself would never otherwise experience.

It's important that you respect your employer. Invariably your loyalty will be richly rewarded.

I'm sitting in a pub in the middle of the afternoon listening to two people, a boy and a girl, discussing their band. Graham, apparently, isn't pulling his weight (he can't even drum in time for Christ's sakes!). Additionally, their setlist is stale and playing the same old shit for the next eight months is going to be hell. They're both bored because they know their both better than this, the only reason they're in it at all is for each other.

They hug and then they leave. She drank lemonade, he drank Coca-Cola. I drank another pint of IPA and after writing this down I leave too. Seemed worth mentioning.

You know when all of a sudden the floor rushes really fast towards your face then suddenly you're starblind and in agony? I hate that, I really do. Additionally, and for your information, I've spent most of today picking at a scab on my knee. I was wounded a week ago falling over a particularly flat and unobtrusive bit of ground in my friends front garden.

Can you get medication to improve your vertical stability?

There's a bastard on the phone who just won't quit. You want to shift him, that'd be good. It'd be good to smash his face open on the warehouse floor too but you know that's not right. It's not his fault, he's just as frightened as you are. Just as wrapped up in love.

I know a girl who spends all her time naming inanimate objects and introducing them to each other. It's fine. I mean, it doesn't bother me too much, and at least she still talks to me at intervals.

It just that for reasons I can't explain it makes me want to cry. That's all.

Some people don't like gherkins. These people should be viewed with extreme suspicion. It's highly likely they are intergalactic space lunatics who've taken on a (vaguely) human form in order to spread pickle propaganda. Gherkins represent the pinnacle of pickle perfection. The ideal gherkin is crunchy and firm, not soggy and limp like the crap you get in burgers from fast food vendors of low standards. The good news is that you don't need to spend a lot of money to get a quality gherkin. Try various varieties from your local supermarket and find the ones you like best. Usually the superior varieties have extra pickley things in the bottom of the jar that give the wee li'll cucumbers a touch more bite.

Here is a good way to enjoy gherkins:

Get two slices of fluffy white bread (you can use almost any variety of white bread to suit your taste, however, as with the bacon buttie, the bread simply must be white, this and the gherkins are the only two portions of this recipe that you may not alter lest the pickle gods strike you down in a fit of furious rage) and a slice or two of good fresh ham. If you like, you can simply lay the ham on the bread, slice medium-chunky chunks of gherkin, stick the other slice of bread on top and enjoy, however most will prefer a dressing of some description. A thin layer of margarine is fine to moisten the bread (not butter!) but you can also experiment with various mustards and mayonnaises. Caution is advised with pre-prepared "sandwich spreads" as these tend to be either bland or overpowering, especially the fishy ones. If you must use fish products with gherkins be sure it is quality fresh meat, do not for example, mix with tinned tuna or sardines, that way madness lies. Other standard sandwich components that most all such snacks benefit from is a good sprinkling of freshly ground pepper and a few slices of fresh crispy iceberg lettuce.

Ideally the gherkin snack/meal you prepare should be enjoyed selfishly and alone. Gherkins are not a social indulgence.

Items found in other people's bins:

• Yesterdays Daily Mail, with egg.
• Something gooey in a baggie.
• Letter from solicitors. Unopened.
• Shoes. Once smart, now also with egg.
• Resteraunt receipts.
• Old socks.
• Shredded papers.
• Lightbulb. Smashed.
• Free toy from a cereal packet.
• Bloodied bandages.
• Four three-quarter full jars of of unbranded instant coffee.
• Credit statements.
• Polaroid photographs. Several half burned.
• Various items of stationary. Sellotape, Tipp-ex etc.
• File-o-Fax.
• Keys of various shapes and types.
• Tie with mustard stain and insignia: MALCOM.
• Razzle (October 1982).
• Assortment of dead insects.
• Carrier bags. In volume and from various supermarkets.
• Hairpiece. Black.
• Disposable razors. Used.
• Gideon Bible.
• Gremlins 2: The New Batch. VHS.
• Junk mail.
• Portable telly. Still useable.
• Scraps of skin.
• Lippy and eyeliner.
• Unused coupons (3 x 5p off a litre of petrol).
• Passport. Photograph removed. Last stamped 1999, Hungary.
• Signed confessions. Various.

I fell down the stairs again. It's something I do. See, these stairs are quite steep and for some reason they've been covered with a slippery carpet. Not the greatest idea in the world maybe, but for now I'm stuck with it. Of course this is carpet that I've inadvertently inherited rather than being carpet I've selected myself. A bumbling fool I may be but I pride myself on being the kind of bumbling fool who's not so bumbling he doesn't know right from wrong when it comes to staircase upholstry. However, I am fool enough to slip and fall over on the stairs all the bloody time.

Despite this slightly reckless disposition, I've managed to avoid serious injury so far. I ascribe this Bruce Willis-in-Unbreakable style skill to my relative suppleness and usual state of (ahem) advanced relaxation at the time of disaster. It's an idea I'm thinking of passing on to the safety people in the motoring and airline industries.