At eight forty-five my light bulb went on. So I switched it off again.

It came on once more at eleven-fifteen. Again at twelve-twenty, and at one o’clock I went for lunch.

At one-o-five I was back at my table.

“Have you gone insane?” cried Mr Holland, who had collared me in the corridor. “Leaving the bulb booth unattended!” Veins stood out on his neck. His face had an unhealthy glow.

“I was going off for my lunch,” I told him. “One o’clock is lunchtime. Everyone knows that.”

“You brought sandwiches, surely?”

“Do you mean to say that I don’t get a proper lunch hour?”

“Aaagh!” went Mr Holland. “The bulb’s gone on. Switch it off! Switch it off!”

I reached out a languid hand and slowly switched it off.

“Phew,” said Mr Holland. “That was a close thing. Now, do not leave this booth again until it’s time for you to clock off.”

“I never clocked on,” I said. “No one told me about clocking on.”

Mr Holland shook his head sadly. “Then, that’s cost you half a day’s pay, hasn’t it? As this is your first day, I will break protocol and clock you on now myself. Although it’s more than my job’s worth to do it.”

“I’ll be for ever in your debt,” I said bitterly. “But actually I need the toilet, so I’ll have to pop out anyway.”

“Didn’t you bring a bag?” asked Mr Holland.

“A bag? What are you talking about?”

“Your predecessor, Mr Hurst, was so dedicated to his profession that he had a colostomy bag fitted. Paid for the operation out of his own money. Or her money at the end. It was confusing. But you should think about doing the same. It can be agony holding it in until home time.”

“I have no intention of ‘holding it in’ until home time,” I said. “I need a pee and I need it now.”

“But you can’t leave the bulb booth unattended.”

“Then you sit in until I come back.”

“I can’t do that. It’s not my job.”

“Well, I’m going to the bog, whether you like it or not.”

“You’d risk five years for a pee. Good God!” Mr Holland threw up his hands.

“Five years for a pee? What are you talking about?” I crossed my legs. I was getting desperate.

“You signed the Official Secrets Act, didn’t you?”

“With a flourish,” said I. “Why do you ask?”

“Because it states quite clearly in the ‘Terms of Employment’ section that, should you leave the bulb booth unattended during your duty period, you will have committed a crime against the state. The punishment is a minimum of five years’ imprisonment. Although upon all previous occasions the court has dealt out far sterner sentences than that. Mr Trubshaw got forty years in solitary. That was during the war, of course. I think he served as a good example, which is probably why Mr Hurst had the bag fitted.”

“What?” I said. “What?”

“Hold it in, boy, if you value your freedom.”

“No,” I said. “Hang about, this can’t be right.”

“Who’s to say what’s right? I’m not a philosopher, I’m a technical manager.”

“No,” I said. “This is ridiculous. Absurd. And what about when I need a replacement bulb? I’d have to leave the booth then.”

“You’d call out to me. I would then initiate a temporary override procedure.”

“Well, initiate one now, while I go and have a pee.”

“Good God,” cried Mr Holland. “You’d take me down with you. Have you no morals at all? Are you a total degenerate?”

“In a word, yes. I quit this stupid job.”

“You can’t quit.”

“Then, fire me.”

“You can’t be fired. You signed the Official Secrets Act. And you can’t take any days off sick, either. You’ve taken the job for life.”

“I’ve what? I’ve what?”

“Don’t shout,” shouted Mr Holland. “I have very sensitive hearing. Had my aural cavities surgically enhanced so that I could hear a request for replacement bulbs being made through the partition wall. You only have to whisper, really.”

“I’m not whispering. And I’m going to wet myself in a minute.”

“I’m very sorry about that. I’m sure it will be very uncomfortable for you. But there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Bring me a bucket, or something.”

“Sorry,” said Mr Holland. “A bucket is out of the question. There is no procedure for buckets. You can’t get a docket for a bucket. It’s unheard of.”

“So I have to wet my pants and go without lunch and if I leave this booth for even a couple of minutes or dare to take the day off, I can be dragged away to prison? Is that what you’re saying?”

“In a word. And to save us all a lot of time and heartbreak, yes.”

“Aaaaaaaaagh!” I went.

And not without good cause.

And then I wet myself.

There was something in the way that Sandra laughed that really got on my nerves. It had taken me nearly an hour to walk home, ducking in and out of alleyways to avoid being seen. What with the big wet patch down my trouser front and everything. And I was ravenously hungry and she said that it was my turn to make dinner.

And everything.

“Stop laughing!” I shouted. “This isn’t funny. This is dire. Terrible. Catastrophic. I’m in big trouble here.”

“It will teach you to read documents before you sign them in future.”

“I don’t have a future!” I stormed up and down the sitting room.

“You’re dripping on the carpet.” Sandra laughed some more.

“I’ll write to my MP,” I said. “This is inhuman. It’s nothing short of slavery. This is the nineteen seventies. Is this what all our student protests have brought us to?”

“What student protests? You never were a student and you never protested against anything.”

“I marched for Gay Rights,” I told her, as I plucked at my damp trouser legs.

“You just went along hoping to get shagged.”

“Yeah, well, all right. That’s why most of us went. But that’s not the point. I can’t be treated like this.”

“So what do you propose to do?”

“Have a bath,” I said. “And have something to eat. And go down the pub and think about what to do.”

“Still, look on the bright side,” said Sandra: “at least you’ll be on a regular wage now. Do you get paid holidays? We could go somewhere nice.”

“Holidays? I never asked about holidays. Perhaps I don’t even get any holidays.”

“I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” Sandra said. She gave me an encouraging smile. “You have a job for life and it’s not exactly taxing, is it? You can read your silly detective books, do an Open University course, learn a second language. Your days are pretty much your own to do with as you please. As long as you don’t leave your bulb booth, of course.” And then Sandra sniggered a bit and then she laughed a lot more.

“I’m going for a bath,” I told her.

“You do that,” said Sandra. “And, darling …”

“Yes?”

“It’s a bit dark in the bathroom. You can switch the bulb on, if you like. A change is as good as a rest, eh?”

And then she laughed a lot more.

I bathed and I dried and I dressed in clean clothes and I stuffed my face with food. And then I went to the pub alone in a very bad mood indeed.

I went to the Shrunken Head. They have music there on a Monday, and every other night too. The Graham Bond Organization were playing that evening. Jeff Beck was on lead guitar.[15]

Harry was on the door, wearing a smart tuxedo.

“You dirty rotten swine!” I greeted him. “You got me into this mess.”

“No, I didn’t,” said Harry. “And what mess are you talking about?”

“Forget it,” I said, making my way inside.

The Shrunken Head was a horrible dump. But then, all music pubs are. It’s a tradition, or an old charter, or something. The furnishings are always rubbish, the beer is always rubbish and overpriced. And there’s always trouble and people shooting up in the toilets and an overall sordidness of a type that you just don’t get anywhere else.