"What kind of name is 'Tothor' anyway?"
 I sighed at the question while maintaining a perfectly balanced smile with just enough intensity so as not to 
appear manic.  I had heard it asked so many times before--sometimes more politely and sometimes a lot worse--but 
this as the first time someone had asked me on my very first day in a new job.  The receptionist who was handing 
me my new security pass with the words 'Tothor McNiven' emblazend boldy across the front next to a picture of me 
looking weary and vaguely distraught as if the photographer had just whipped out a large knife.  He eyed me with a 
suspicious curiosity from eyes set deep within a wide, fat, face.  The extended arm protruted from a mass of 
folds and rolls barely contained by the uniform shirtand was sticking out at such a funny, stubby, angle it could 
almost have been comical were it not for the accompanying waft of body odour.

By way of reply to his demanded question I simply widened my smile, took the pass and nodded before walking away.  
As I got to the bottom fo the stairs I could hear the fat wadge of a man muttering someting about foreigners to 
his colleage who was the study of practiced indifference.  Letting out my sigh finally, I pushed the worn door 
open and started up the stairway.  Another contract, another barage of quesitons and enforced social activities, 
chit-chat, meetings about meetings and The Team. Go Team.  After all this time I wondered if I carried on wether I 
would eventually fade into the same grey-beige paint that plastered the walls in these companies until there was 
nothing left but my sour expression haunting the walls.  I smirked at the thought of ex-employees becoming part of 
the furniture and suddenly realized there were two women coming down the stairs.  They clearly thought I had been 
smirking at them and gave me a filthy look which they prolonged to the point where I was just starting to believe 
that they were possessed with permanent scowls before they relaxed and continued down to the ground floor, surfing 
on a toxic wave of perfume and chemicals.

Finally at the correct floor I hefted my laptop bag--which in truth only contained my lunch and the vague but 
persistent odour of bananas--sighed again and pushed my way into the office that made up the heart of iDesign 
Possibilites Ltd.  Another reception desk, this time staffed by a woman with short curly hair and a stern 
expression.  She looked at my pass, handed me a form and said:  "Tothor.  Fill this out.  Take a seat".

A coupld of boxes ticked, my cat filled out as my next-of-kin and I was free to have a few moments to relax in the 
hard plastic chair placed just out of reach of the swinging door so it was fine if unnocupoied but meant that no 
elbows were safe once seated.  After a few minutes another chap came along but with a spring in his step.  He was 
balding, skinny and athletic with a fuzz of short red hair defiantly clinging to parts of his head.  The other new 
guy.  But I had the only chair.  Round one to me.  I could tell by the sickeningly jovial way he as bearing down 
on me that he was wanting to chat and my heart sank down to the cheap threadbare carpet as I smiled back at him 
with practiced warmth.