Boredom is a painless headache.
Exile to office world and imprisonment in some bleak, windowless cubicle is rather like being buried up to your neck in desert sands with only a cactus-shaped lamp and a computer-skull for company. I expect someone will smear jam all over my face at lunchtime, then fill my in-tray with hungry insects.
I noticed a potted palm beside the water cooler when I arrived: an ersatz, man-made oasis amid endless corridors of buzzing, fluorescent nothingness.
Fortunately I am only here until the end of the week; just another human caravan passing through; a guest of the Ozymandias upstairs.
