You may think of me as a master of the airwaves - and don't let me stop you - but from 9 to 5 I have to spend my time at work. My job is very boring (I'm an office clerk).
I was sitting on the Number 8 bus this morning, stuck in traffic opposite the Bank of England on Threadneedle Street, when in a rare moment of what Sting might call synchronicity this came on my iPod:
"Mr. Commuter" - Mike Proctor
Oh alright, it didn't really happen like that. But I do work in an office and I do get the bus down Threadneedle Street every day. So it could in theory.
I know nothing at all about Mike Proctor. I assume he isn't the former Gloucestershire and South Africa all-rounder Mike Procter with an E, who was a bit of a boyhood hero of mine. When I was about 10 I won a poetry prize at school for some doggerel about a man who needed his arm amputated but "was too poor to call a doctor/ so got it bowled off by Mike Procter". Not very good I know, but there wasn't a lot of competition on the poetry front in small town South Africa in the 1970s.
Anyway, back to the script. If you get on the Number 8 bus going East you'll end up in Bow where chances are you might meet this chap:
And going back to where we came in, here is another office clerk:
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