So I opened this brown paper bag and found someone's old lunch. Half a cheese sandwich and a strawberry yoghurt pot. It was cold, I was hungry, so I ate the sandwich and used my finger to scrape out the pot; tasty.

     A mutt peed against a park bench and in the cold morning air it steamed like an espresso from Soho's Bar Italia. Gone are the days. A biscotti would be nice.

     Ducks were swimming on the pond and mothers were letting their kids feed them, what a waste, I was still hungry. A park keeper frowned disapprovingly; at me or the dog, I couldn't tell.

     The turbulent, sweat stink basement pot room in which I worked was beckoning and I was ten minutes late already. The chief potman would make life more shit than it usually was. I'd be relegated to the large and greasy utensil sink and have to scrape away at burnt pot bottoms until my fingernails became as soft as the flesh beneath them.

     I make around forty quid a day, which after rent doesn't leave much for extravagances like soap and toothpaste, but, as it was a rollover week, I bought a lottery ticket. I couldn't be arsed to choose some numbers so the lucky dip chose 11, 14, 21, 22, 37 and 42. 42, the answer to life, the universe and everything so I once read. I'm one of those sad people who constantly fantasises about how I'll spend my millions. So much on a house, car, holiday, bondage gear and a donation to the Greyhound Trust; it's not right what they do to racing dogs when they've run the final lap.

     I turned the corner into Gower Street and went down the basement steps into the bowels of La Fontana. Through the steel-plated slate coloured door and into the steamy stench of old grease and rotting vegetables. I was greeted with a "Where the fuck have you been", from pot meister Gorbals and made my way to the changing room. Which was more of a rancid toilet really.

     Have I really come to this? Me who used to earn a bomb, live in a big old detached house in Kent, own two cars and take three holidays a year. I suppose I have, and I suppose I've only myself and Norman Lamont to blame. Norman Lamont, face like fucked owl and a tattoo on his left bum cheek of a flaming heart and the initials ERM, what a cunt. I hate that man with every fibre of my nylon shirt. Hate's too lenient a description; more like fucking, bollocking, cunting, wouldn't piss on him if he was on fire you stupid, stupid man. Not a man, more a slug, no, more the slime it leaves behind, no, more the crystallised trail it leaves behind across the bathroom carpet in the morning.

     But I digress. I emerge from the bog pit resplendent in my two day old apron and make for the kettle. Before I reach it, pot meister Gorbals says he's off down the pub and, "Mind you get last night's crap cleaned up before chef gets in or you're out on yer fucking ear. D'you 'ear me clever cunt?" I give him the thumbs up and turn to face the carnage that awaits me. Like an iceberg with only a tenth of its mass exposed, it lurks . . . surrounded by a thick film of grease . . . in two twenty-five gallon sinks. And in that moment the whole weight of the world seemed to press down on my shoulders, kick me in the bollocks and tie my shoe laces together. Things always seem to happen in threes don't they? Father, Son and Holy Ghost; gold, silver and bronze; knife, fork and spoon.

     The closing of the steel-plated slate coloured door brought me to my senses and the chef rolled in. Chef Antonio was the original model for the Weebel that wobbled but wouldn't fall down, except he did, all the time. He said it was a problem with his chalk balls. I smiled in sympathy and delved into the sink to find and pull the plugs. Like the hungry carburettors on a 911Porsche, the fetid water was sucked down the plug hole revealing the full extent of the damage. Chef Antonio winced at the exposed mass and slapped me on the back. I took this in the manner it was intended, clenched my fist and delivered a massive right hook to his jaw. Chef Antonio fell over. Chalk balls again I guess.

     I headed for the nearest pub, but was side-tracked by a sign in the window of a Thomas Cook; Three nights B&B in a Tunisian two star hotel for £75 including flights. I could use a break, and so I did. It was a heavy brick but still it took three attempts to break the glass and await the two tone horns and heavy booted step of my personal thin blue line. I managed a night's B&B at her Majesty's pleasure. Shame about the bruised rib and split lip, but it's a small price to pay for a roof over your head and a free meal. Maybe tomorrow, maybe . . .

     The end.