Sitting. At the desk. The computer tries to block my vision but its easy to see over the top; a middle distance stare that would put me in good stead for a job as a model in the freeman’s catalogue.

The park stretches ahead from the office window. To be a squirrel. In summer time. With some peanuts. Close to the path.

No good.

Summer has gone, taking with it the park dwellers and their bags of pre packaged vermin food. But the squirrels here have forgotten that they’re vermin. Too used to being fed.

There’s a crash, as another small furry body falls out of the tree nearest the office. This time, instead of landing in the mouldering heap of grey fur from other failed squirrels, who move only to play with the rats, the branches of the tree catapault the starving creature through my window. It lands in a small sea of glass and blood, in the centre of a report that details the newest business paradigms that will allow us to square the circle of perfection and avoid being sent up river when we’re trying to go downstream.

It is not surprising that the paper pulls the life blood from the animal, although the speed means that it is not so much a blotter, but a suction pump. The squirrel is left, still and silent, its pale face screaming the same silent “why?” that I was expecting from anyone else who encountered the document.