Twenty, twenty two. No, twenty one. I missed out twenty one. So twenty one and twenty two once more. When the telephone rings, I pick it up to impress people with my foreign accent. More than often, I struggle with their names. When I sense impatience from the other line, I become impatient too. Why don't you just fuck off, I wish. I am sorry there is no one called 'your boss'. Then I suddenly come to my senses what on earth I am doing here. Twenty three. I am getting better at wasting my time every day. Some achievement, ha? Twenty four. It still doesn't seem to comfort my wounded pride.
Once upon a time, I had a dream. I was a clever girl, even intelligent. I was the pride and joy of my parents, the apple of my teachers. I thought I could make something out of my life. I thought I could make intellectual contribution to this world. Was it twenty four? Twenty five, then. What happened to the confident and bright girl I do not know. I had a good education and well paid job. I came here with all my savings to broaden my experience. Ignoring all well-meaning advice that I should register in a MA course continuing my previous degree subject, I chose an unpopular subject to learn from the collective past only to be thoroughly wasted. I got married to a British and remained in the UK. Suddenly I was forced to realise that I was over thirty with imperfect, to put it mildly, English accent, worse uncommon, and with no professional qualification. No wonder no sane minded employer wanted me. I ask forgiveness of all the trees that ended up as my application forms. Yes, I do remember my numerous attempts to improve my position by getting another job.
Once I even visited a recruitment agency. The girl who interviewed me asked what sort of job I wanted to have. A job where I can use my intelligence, I dared to speak the word. She looked lost, almost embarrassed. There are many Japanese girls, you should know, with a degree and a good grade, just like yours, well not much worse anyway, I mean two-one cannot be that different from first, who became a secretary because they wanted to stay here with their British husbands. She said. She was one of these unfortunate Japanese girls and yet managed to become a recruitment consultant. I didn't tell her she fared better. I just said what my considerate nature compelled me. I know someone who has been unemployed, would you believe, for three years with his degree and he is an English. Twenty six, twenty seven, twenty eight. I didn't tell her. You know what? I never though I would come to this but I envy him. Twenty nine. True that he spent most of his time cooking, watching television, playing computer games, far from any decent exercise of his intelligence. His self confidence was low and he became quiet and withdrawn. Still he didn't have to pretend that he was working hard. He didn't have to count numbers. Moreover, he is only thirty.
So thirty it is. What a blissful life he led. Some failure is better than others. Thirty one. My values have been dramatically changed ever since my rosy view of career life along with my self-confidence fell apart. Did I ever believe that everyone ought to contribute to the society in their own individual way? Well it seems that the society does not want your little special contribution to cherish it. You occupy a job which anybody else can do, only better. Did I ever believe that you are the author of your life? Society should have told you that no matter how intelligent you are and no matter how hard you try, the market has been, is and always will be, governed by 'Supply and Demand Rule' and some are bound to fail. Moreover the society must have the reserves, the potential failures to make sure it won't struggle to fill the vacancies. So the population is constantly increasing, never mind the environment, we need to fill up the reserves.

Thirty two. Everybody else in this company is a part of the blessed Rat Race. Their time flies. My time crawls. They are busy chasing others' goals and I am left to entertain myself in solemn secrecy. I chew my depression and paint my future with nervous uncertainty. Perhaps it is just me. Perhaps I have all the blessings and yet spoiled rotten not to be grateful. I have life when I leave this office. I have a roof over my head. I do not worry about where the next meal is coming from. It is only a recent phenomenon that people expect both financial and psychological satisfaction from their job. There are still plenty of people who go to their work grudgingly and work for their daily bread. Besides, why should a society as a bunch of unrelated individuals care about your wasting your talent? It is nobody's problem but yours. You have the whole responsibility to look after your own interest. If you fail that, why should anybody care? Some even don't have the therapeutic relief from counting numbers. It must lower the blood pressure and keep your heart healthy. Thirty three. Aren't I amazingly lucky? Who cares if people think I am a sad example of the useless arts education. Isn't it wonderful that I give so many people a great satisfaction to find that 'Degree' may mean something in the academic world, though not enough to give a job, but is worthless in the Real World of competition and survival of the fittest. I provide them with feeling of contentment and sense of superiority. Surely this must be an important contribution to the health of society. It is therefore ridiculous for me to feel trapped. Nor is it reasonable for me to think that my frustration warrants good screaming or hysterical cry. There cannot be any justification for my secret wishes to become seriously ill just to say goodbye to this job.

Thirty four. Thank God. It's nearly an hour. Only another seven hours to go. My days are long because I am still young. I am only thirty five. I may be old enough to respect the common sense. Yet my foolish youth tortures my sanity with its uncompromisingly naive dream.