The lift door slides open as the clock ticks around to 9:32. My flexi-time will suffer once more but who cares when it is Friday - the great day of escape!

"Morning Michael," I say to a junior colleague. Michael - a fresh faced kid just out of school who spends most of his day playing practical jokes. But today is my day for revenge…

"Morning," he says, smiling cheekily as he enters the lift.

This is a perfect opportunity. I cannot let it slide…

"Is your Mum out of prison yet?" I say, perfectly timed as the doors close, leaving him to face the other occupants who now look at him with disdain. Perfect! Serves him right too, as after all, it was his joke.

The boss looks at me with a scowl that insinuates a whole host of expletives that he will never have the guts to say. I avoid his glance as I sign on. Then I head straight for the files where I instantly pretend to work…

The files in infinite rows stretch from wall to wall, crammed into spaces where they cannot possibly fit. Inside each file is a list of disabilities incurred in some war all those years ago. Each file has a name and a number - they declare eligibility for a service pension or war widow's benefit which is wholly inadequate to compensate for lost limbs or life. And dare might I say 'hypertension' is rife?

The 'CPX' prefix denotes the British files which are now in decline. They stamp them with "DECEASED" and whisk them briskly away to archives where they will soon gather dust. It is hard to imagine that each of these files, all detested by the inanimate workers of D.V.A., actually represent a person who actually exists, (or once existed.) There are thousands of them! I have read a lot of files in my time, in the line of duty of course, and I tell you now, there's no way that I'm ever going to war.

I really feel sorry for all the old diggers who hobble up to the front counter with their crumpled up pieces of paper. They often complain and the staff does their best to help - it is the bumbling bureaucracy that lets everyone down; not the incompetence of individuals. Poor old Diggers! They put their lives on the line for the country and what do they get in return? Not much!

The clinking of the tea trolley soon fills my ears. It is with great elation that I realize it is already morning tea. Each clerk suddenly comes to life. Some line up to get their tea. See? Public Servants do actually move - but only when they have to. They are a dreary lot the clerks, the same every day, perched behind their tidy desks with a false grin at the ready just in case one of them actually speaks! One day, long ago, they were probably interesting people…but twenty years in this place is enough to turn anyone into a boring, shallow, moron. Me included! I had seen my hideous future hidden in their faces…I knew I had to get out.

The only problem with Friday is that it inevitably leads to Monday. And when Monday comes and I arrive at these halls of nonsense I inevitably want to die. Will anything bring this office of the dead to life?

Really, all questionable plots aside, the Office of the Dead is in the sky, where our deceased veterans lie. And with their ghostly guns still by their side, they smile as we stamp their file…just before they sink into sleep like a child.