As I lie in the dark I consider the likelihood of the possible scenarios. Firstly, the chances of the same finger lickin' outfit picking me out as a random victim on Saturday and robbing my car on Sunday. Alternatively, what are the odds that I have fallen foul of two separate KFC loving bands of criminals on consecutive days?

Reflecting as I have on the two events I think, would I have given it a second thought that the hoodies in the Peugeot at The Drake and Drain were munching KFC if I hadn't had the brush with - and thump from - the first lot the day before? No is the answer, of course not. The fact is the second experience only registered in my mind as being significant after the first.

It would have been nice to have a police perspective on it. I hate to do down the law, but they have yet to put in an appearance. There was a distinct lack of interest, compassion or urgency when I called them. I was told that I would be visited at home for a statement later. Later – the ultimate open-ended word. If ever you want to fob someone off just tell them ‘later’.

I had to drive the car home, so I’ll have contaminated forensics inside the car and disturbed evidence at the scene. When I told the police operator the details of what I thought at the time may be connected events, she threw a third scenario in to the mix; that perhaps something had been added to the Colonel's secret blend and turned the locals into frenzied criminals. Given the muffled laughter in the background it seemed as though some of her control-room colleagues had 'downed tools' to listen in.

Anyway that was nine hours ago and I've just been woken by a 'courtesy call' from GMP's night-shift to tell me it's unlikely the local bobbies are going to get to me tonight. It’s 1:17am. I relay my gratitude for the update and state that I have every confidence in the police eventually providing me with the crime number I would need for my firm's fleet department, adding that the small matter of apprehending those responsible was not giving me cause for concern. After all, their fine officers were certain to find the little tearaways lurking around the next corner, ready to cough to any number of misdemeanours. I deny I am ‘trying to be funny’.

So now I'm awake and as my senses warm up I gradually figure out how they did it. The car was locked when I returned to it with no signs of it being forcibly opened. So that meant they'd obtained my key and as they hadn't entered the pub there was only one way they could have gained it... through the open pub window as I was at the pool table. While the key was absent I'd been kept occupied by a slowing of play until such time as the key was ready to be returned. Matey got a text and the ‘pass back’ must have been made during my next turn.

I had been teed up beautifully. Send the eye candy over. I take the bait. Then one quick call later… Quite an ingenious little con and expertly executed. I would never have thought them capable of it. Just shows what you can come up with when you're a benefit scrounger sat at home all day watching re-runs of Street Crime and The Real Hustle. It does beg the question whether it was all worth it though. I mean, seven people splitting a three hundred quid stereo and five CD's that you could pick up legitimately for under thirty quid. I suppose it's a couple of wraps apiece and that'll be all they're bothered about.

I, on the other hand, need a good slap. I've been done over like a seedy businessman robbed by a hotel hooker. I'd gone out in search of company, in search of a lift, ended up thinking through my boxer shorts and got what I deserved.

As if I ever had a chance with either of those two.

* * * * * *

I swipe my card in the front door and pass through. I hate Mondays. I swipe it again and heave the next door back with a sharp intake of breath. I really hate Mondays. Jackie's on reception with a sophisticated smile that belies her Gorton roots. Sat beside her is her new assistant, Merle, who started two weeks ago.

Merle is about the same age as Donna and Karen, but far removed from them in the looks department. Today, as on the previous two Monday's she is wearing a cropped black top, which I know will display her slight jelly belly and back tattoo the moment she stands. My early observations of Merle are that she's a complex and troubled individual prone to frequent dark moods. I'm no Sigmund Freud, but I'm quietly confident about the accuracy of my analysis having seen both the medication she's on and the rather disturbing illustrations she leaves on company message pads.

I really, really hate Mondays.

'Morning, Jackie. Morning, Merle.'

'Morning,' replies Jackie.

Merle blanks me, swings her seat round and strolls to the Stationery Room. I shoot round her desk and take two Kola Kubes from the big bag of Bassett's Sweet Shop Favourites tucked down the side of her computer monitor. Jackie has a look of wide-eyed terror.

'Want one?' I ask, a Kola Kube bulging out of my cheek.

'No, I don't,' she whispers. 'I'll wait until I'm offered.'

'You sure? There's pear drops and those rhubarb and custardy things.'

'You’d better go. She'll smell it on your breath.'

'Where are the marker pens?' shouts Merle from the bowels of the Stationery Room.

'Second shelf on the left,' replies Jackie nervously.
'She's not sniffing the marker pens now, is she?'

'Be quiet.'

'Mmm, these are so Moorish.' I smack my chops together and eye up the bag of sweets again.

'She'll go potty if she catches you.'

'She is potty. I'm helping her. She shouldn't be having so much sugar.'

Jackie looks genuinely scared. Something must have happened with Merle last week, but being out on the road for four days it's hard to keep abreast of events back at base. Not that there's usually much excitement. Jackie does look absolutely pitiful though. I put the other Kola Kube back and Jackie manages a weak smile.

* * * * * *

'OK, let's go over the figures from last week.'

Urgh, the same old ritual. Will Judge ever tire of this? No, of course he won't because he loves the sound of his own voice too much; loves the performance and the limelight. With some managers you get carrot or stick. Judge spoils us because we get both; backslapping and bollockings.

I used to be motivated by the backslapping and winning things. Then for a while I'd just want to avoid a bollocking. Now I get named and shamed regularly and don't give a toss. I used to be the one that made Judge look good, but he's got others who do that now.

I hate the Monday morning meeting; the sixty minute out of body experience it has become. Being asked questions by a wanker who only ever asks questions he already knows the answers to.

'Do you want to kick us off, Hayley? How did you get on, babe?'

Christ's sake. We report our figures nightly. He knows exactly how Hayley 'got on'. Hayley speaks, mwaw waw waw blah. Judge scribbles, puts his pencil down and claps his chubby hands.

'That's a fucking great all-round job, Hayley. Every indicie. Outstanding.'

We clap with him because it's the done thing. Broad smiles in Hayley's direction. Happy fucking clappers.

'Frank?'

Frank pushes his glasses back on his nose and fires off his figures. Judge scribbles again. Frank looks comfortable, at ease. His Alsatian must be moulting again because his suit's covered in dog hairs.

'Can I tell you a story about Frank last week that warmed my heart?' says Judge, cupping his left pectoral.

Like we have a choice?

Frank puffs out his chest and hangs his chin out proudly.

'This is the level of this guy's commitment mwaw waw blah mwaw.'

I try to will myself into a catatonic state.

Fifteen minutes later, seven reps down, one to go.

'All right, Andy, let's have 'em,' sniffs Judge.

I suddenly sense an expectant air in the room. The whiff of blood has pierced the nostrils of the circling vultures. Vultures masquerading as colleagues. I raise my head wearily. Is it me, or is this week dragging?

I force myself to speak, relaying the returns Judge already knows to be paltry. He scribbles; his pencil never louder or more urgent. I wait. The vultures wait. He holds his pencil above the sheet of A4, his face almost pressed to it. He purses his lips and nods to himself. I feel eager eyes darting back and forth between predator and prey. Come on then, big man. Give me your worst.

'Nice week, Andy. If the whole team did that we’d decrease the business by fifty nine per cent.'

Judge provides a silence I'm expected to fill. His stare tells me he's waiting to be challenged. I dare you. He's ready for the mother of all confrontations. I double fucking dare you.

'Yeah, I had a few stand-ups and there are a couple of big pitches that I'm going back to this...'

I'm not allowed to continue my blagging.

'We'll talk later.'

There's no doubting the threat is serious. Oh, joy. When would be a good time to tell him about the car?

We file out of Judge's office and disperse to our desks. Monday. Nine hours of appointment making. Judge's various sound bites fogging my brain and stifling the ‘positive internal dialogue’ I am trained to have. People buy People. Work smart. It's a numbers game. Think about what you're going to say if he says no. How goes Monday, how goes your week.

I could not be less motivated, but I'm a fool to myself. I need the job and the money. Katy is still my dependant and I'm sick of just getting by. That should be all the motivation I need, but just in case it isn't there's Judge. He wants me out. He'll have me on a performance warning soon, maybe by the end of today. Then I'll have three months maximum on an improvement plan to turn it around. I'm on the slippery slope and I should be digging my nails in and clawing my way back up, but I'm stretched out on my back like I'm on some sun-kissed island. Sheer apathy is preventing me working harder. Judge wants to see the fire in my belly, but the pilot light’s gone out.

Judge appears at my workstation as I'm trying to scrape a black cherry yoghurt stain off my tie. 'Your commission statement,' he says bluntly, dropping a white envelope in front of me. 'Bet you get enough junk mail at home,' he adds with a poorly disguised smirk.

I open the envelope slowly. It puts off having to pick up the phone for another minute. I read across the bottom row:

New Commission £341.85
Claw Back £226.20

Bastard cancellations!

Deductions £37.23
Payment Due £78.41

No fucking way. No wonder Judge was smirking. The short arsed fucker. He'd have had a cancellation log. He gets one every fucking week. I didn't know about any potential cancellations or else I could have tried to save them. He fucking did, but he doesn't care that I'm getting seventy-eight fucking quid. He only fucking cares about the team figures. He’s decided he can’t manage me to improve so he’s managing me out. The fucker!

I look across at Frank opening his, then Hayley, who Judge has just reached. Her envelope is passed with a smile and, oh, they're sharing a joke. Mwaw waw pout sigh. Carrie. Ben. Steve N. Steve P and Lucy. I reckon I can estimate closely what each of them will be picking up. Carrie, Hayley and Lucy are all stunners in their mid-twenties. All fresh of face and firm of tit. You can imagine the thought process the average business owner goes through with one of them in their office. They think 'I'll have whatever you're peddling as long as you're back next month with your cleavage on show'. None of the girls will be clearing less than fifteen hundred and in Hayley's case, with her being the biggest flirt with the biggest tits - although Judge is adamant it's because she has the biggest skills set, which I don't dispute I just think the two, literally, go hand in hand - it will be closer to three grand. Netto.

Steve P and Frank close to two grand, Ben twelve hundred and Steve N being a bit of a plodder eight hundred. Judge takes an average with an allowance of ten per cent for under performance or absences, so he’ll be getting north of two grand at a guess. Not bad for sitting in an Ivory Tower on a ten grand higher basic, barking orders down the phone. If he'd helped me save my cancellations I'd have been two hundred quid better off this month, but it's probably fifty quid to Judge and he’d rather have shut of me.

I don't need this on a Monday of all days. There's got to be something better than this. I've got to be better than this. I tuck the statement in my suit pocket, take a deep breath, get Burscough Hardwoods details on the screen and pick up the phone.

* * * * * *

I don't suppose it's an entirely original scam, but I have a particular way of boosting my call log and at least keeping Judge off my back over my dial rate. The print-outs that Judge and the other managers get show total calls, total call time, longest call time and average call duration. Individually dialled numbers are not shown and calls are not listened in to. So what I do is use an old mobile I've kept. I'll call it as many times as I can get away with and it gives a nice 'busy' feel to my stats. I'll hear the sound of my 'unavailable' voice followed by a bleep and stay silent for a critical half-minute to ensure my average call duration doesn't fall. If Judge is nearby I'll make out I'm speaking to a receptionist whose boss is tied up. 'Oh dear', I will say, 'when would be a more convenient time to call back?' I see it as a bit of sport to help get me through this tortuous day.

* * * * * *

It's six-thirty and Judge hasn't had me in for my one-to-one yet. As far as I'm aware everyone else has been in and half the team has already left the office. Until I get the curly finger and inevitable lecture I'm stuck here. Keeping me to last is part of Judge's 'managing by inconvenience' routine. It means if you're not delivering the results, you're going to get dicked around.

Then he appears on the floor, just as I'm speaking pleasantly to myself for the umpteenth time today. He waits for the call to end before saying, 'Come on then AA, fetch your stuff.' I detest him more when he’s ‘pally’ like this. It's a façade. It's a ploy designed to confuse and disorientate. I know exactly what to expect.

I fetch my stuff, which comprises my progress chart and weekly journey planner, which I have fleshed out with three fictitious appointments with invalid mobile numbers for contacts and 'meet on-site' in the address column. I’m playing with fire as falsifying a journey planner is gross misconduct.

'Could you not have left it a bit later? I was just getting on a roll then', I say dryly as I close his office door.

'I'm working in reverse alphabetical order today', he informs me playfully, to his own amusement. 'Walsh back to Abbott.'

I smile without showing my pearly whites, which are firmly gritted. I won't bother telling him that I saw Steve N come in before Steve P.

'That was another shocking week you had', he continues as I take a seat. 'I really need to see the old AA breakdown recovery service rolling into action soon?'

I manage a lame chuckle. 'I expect the trend to be upwards this week', I say, with lip service duly paid.

'You don't seem up for it to me, Andy. I don't think your heart's in it anymore, and this job's all about heart.' He's squeezing his pec again. What's up with the man?

Judge reclines back in his leather seat. This is where I'm supposed to demonstrate some fight, show that I've still got the desire to succeed. I just want to go home and have my tea.

'Maybe you're right.'

Judge stays reclined, overtly laid back. 'There's no harm in walking away if you've lost your hunger. A change is probably what you need. Different company. Different product. It rejuvenates some people.'

He plays a canny old game, Judge. It's a pain in the neck going down the disciplinary route if you're a manager. Far better if they just resign. I'm being subtly coaxed towards the exit door.

'It's not something I've thought about, change. I'm a creature of habit.'

'Well at this stage you'd still get a good reference, no question, but three months down the line it could be littered with performance warnings.'

'That's assuming I need a reference', is my enigmatic bluff.

Judge launches into one of his monologues about knowledge and skill and attitude and him and me. The thing about me that unsettles him is he's never been able to read me. He has no idea what goes on in my head. It's a pity I've never played the fucker at poker.

My gaze falls from Judge's louche eyes of fake sincerity to his lips, the transporters of his bullshit. He has a weird little scar on his top lip. I wonder, as I have many times before, how it was gained. Perhaps he was bitten by a dog as a kid. I visualise a young Judge running for home in tears, screaming in terror, blood and snot converging around his mouth.

I feel relaxed, almost serene as his animated lips dance together. Ebb and flow. Judge's diatribe continues unabated, but I'm past caring. He's fighting a losing battle.

Mwaw waw blah. Falling on deaf ears.

Judge stops and I look back to his eyes as though I've just been brought out of a hypnotic trance. 'So what's it to be?' he asks.

I'm not sure quite what options he's put to me. 'I'll let you know,' I reply, standing. 'Oh, and I should have mentioned earlier. My car's been attacked.'

'Attacked?'

'Hmm. Chiselled right down the side and the CD player nicked. I'll need a report form for Head Office. When do you think I can get it in the body shop?'

‘When did this happen?’

‘Yesterday.’

‘I hope you’ve contacted the police’.

‘Check’.

‘And what are they doing about it?’

'The police? I don’t know yet. I’m still waiting for a visit’. I draw the office door back. 'But don't worry. I'll catch them.'