Hater

any safer. There's a personal attack alarm stuck under the desk but that doesn't make me feel any better either.
    It's four thirty-eight. Twenty-two minutes to go then I'm finished for the day.
    I'm sure Tina enjoys making me come out here. It's always me who ends up covering for Jennifer. Being out on Reception is a form of torture. You're not allowed to bring any paperwork out here with you (something about protecting confidential data) and the lack of any distractions makes the time drag painfully slowly. So far this afternoon I've only had to deal with two phone calls, and they were just personal calls for members of staff.
    Four thirty-nine.
    Come on clock, speed up.

    Four fifty-four.
    Almost there. I'm watching the clock all the time now, willing the hands to move round quickly so that I can get out of here. I'm already rehearsing my escape from the office in my head. I just have to shutdown my computer and grab my coat from the cloakroom then I'll sprint to the station. If I can get away quickly enough I might manage to catch the early train and that'll get me back home for…
    Damn. Bloody phone's ringing again. I hate the way it rings. It grates like an off-key alarm clock and the noise goes right through me. I pick it up and cringe at the thought of what might be waiting for me at the other end of the line.
    'Good afternoon, PFP, Danny McCoyne speaking,' I mumble quickly. I've learnt to answer the phone quietly and at speed. It makes it difficult for the caller to take your name.
    'Can I speak to Mr Fitzpatrick in Payroll please?' a heavily accented female voice asks. Thank God for that - this isn't a screaming member of the public with a complaint, it's just a wrong number. I relax. We get a few calls for Payroll most days. Their extensions are similar to ours. You'd think someone would do something about it. Anyway I'm relieved. The last thing I want is a problem at four fifty-five.
    'You've come through to the wrong department,' I explain. 'You've dialled 2300 instead of 3200. I'll try and transfer you. If you get cut-off just dial 1000 and that'll take you through to the main exchange…'
    I'm suddenly distracted and my voice trails away as the front door flies open. I instinctively move back on my chair, trying to put as much distance as possible between me and whoever it is who's about to come storming into the building. I finish the phone call and allow myself to relax slightly when I see the front wheels of a child's pushchair being forced through the door. The pushchair is jammed in the doorway and I get up to help. A short, rain-soaked woman in a green and purple anorak enters Reception. As well as the child in the pushchair (which is hidden from view by a heavy plastic rain-cover) two more small children follow her inside. The bedraggled family stand in the middle of the Reception area and drip water onto the grubby marble-effect floor. The woman seems harassed and is pre-occupied with her kids. She snaps at the tallest child, telling him that 'Mummy has a problem to sort out with this man, then we'll get you back home for something to eat.'
    She takes off her hood and I can see that she's in her late thirties or early forties. She's plain looking and her large, round, rain-splashed glasses are steaming up. Her face is flushed red and there are dribbles of rainwater dripping off the end of her nose. She doesn't make eye contact with me. She slams her handbag down on the desk and begins searching through it. She stops for a moment to lift the rain-cover (which is also beginning to steam up with condensation) and checks on her baby who seems to be sleeping. She returns her attention to the contents of her handbag and I make my way back around to the other side of the counter.
    'Can I help you?' I ask cautiously, deciding that it's about time I offered. She glares at me over the rim of her glasses. This woman has an attitude, I can sense it. She's making me feel uncomfortable. I know I'm in for a hard time.
    'Wait a minute,' she snaps, talking to me as if I'm one of her kids. She takes a packet of tissues out of her bag and passes one to one of the children at her feet who keeps wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve. 'Blow,' she orders sternly, shoving the tissue into the middle of the kid's face. The child doesn't argue.
    I glance up at the clock. Four fifty-seven. Doesn't look like I'll be getting the early train home tonight.
    'I parked my car at Leftbank Place for five minutes while I took