Fist stop: my office. If you can call it an office -- it`s a sort of niche between a row of locker and a herd of senile filing cabinets, into which the Facilities gnomes have jammed a plywood desk and a swivel chair with a damage gas strut. I drop my coat and jacket on the chair and my computer terminal whistles at me: YOU`VE GOT MAIL. No shit, Sherlock, I always have mail. It`s an existential thing: if I don`t have mail it would mean that something is very wrong with the world, or maybe I`ve died and gone to bureaucratic hell.
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