Send out the press release. My life as an esteemed temporary employee officially begins today. The magic unfurls early, or is that, late?

I see on my mobile phone that it's 9am as I cut through the cafeteria courtyard, on my way to Quality Assurance HQ. Of course, it's ten minutes later on the office clock, so it would appear that I am fifteen minutes late. How does that happen? You comfortably saunter in to an office thinking you're on time, and the clock on site always tells that you're late. Luckily there's no-one here yet. It's silent. It occurs to me that zombies may appear at any moment and start pounding on the glass window that separates me from the those pesky people who attend the institute. These visions help to dull the pain of a painfully pointless scenario.

I systematically put the kettle on and boot up the computer using the log-on provided. I notice that the log-on contains the most foreign looking surname I have ever come across. It is also difficult to type. P-o-u-r-s-h-a-f-i-g-h-i. "P-o-u-r-bloody-s-h-a-farkin-i-g-h-i-what? I can only presume that the woman to whom this name belongs, is: a) traumatised from lifelong taunts, and b) looks like a man.

It’s alarmingly quiet in my cheaply furnished work suite - a far cry from the bustling, creative hub that I have come from. I quickly remind myself that I no longer feel the stress or emotional exhaustion that that vibrant place once imposed on me.

I can do this. I can, I can, I can.

But I need music.

Unauthorised, I stream Triple J radio off the net, and, after the fact, I check with my supervisor if it's okay. She’s absolutely fine. My fear of being sent home for playing alternative type music in a beige work place is unfounded.

I've never worked at a learning establishment before. The students here smell bad – like wee. But then, I am in my thirties, and they have their whole lives ahead of them. I’m the one who is actually working here. But, why do they stare? I can offer them nothing, except maybe personal hygiene advice.

Late in the morning, I feel ready for a break from my low-flying business affairs, and duck out to collect the mail, newspapers and milk.

In my travels I meet Janice. Janice is a secretary for an important Director of “Something”. I can't decide whether it's the blue eyeshadow on purple tinged skin, the shock of unstyled hair, or the fact that she is perhaps not actually alive, that makes her so hideous to look at. Janice is pleasant, but extremely animated and over the top, as nerds get, when they meet the new kid at school, before the new kid discovers that no-one else there likes them. I stand before her, quietly reserved, trying to absorb her flurry of words. I eventually shake her off without needing to use one of the newspapers I dutifully collect, and am left to ride out the day like any other serious career woman does.