You get to work

You pull into the car park, slipping the handbrake on before gathering your bag from the passenger seat. The walk to the council offices is short, the cold air catching on your cheeks before the automatic doors slide open.

Inside, it’s the same as always: the faint smell of paper, the low hum of computers, a couple of “morning” nods as you pass reception. You hang your coat on the back of your chair, settle your bag under the desk, and turn on the computer.

The first part of the morning is a steady rhythm of emails and case notes. You take calls from residents, jot down details on scraps of paper, and send messages through to colleagues in other departments. Someone pops over with a file for you to look at; you swap quick comments about the weather before they move on.

There’s a mid-morning tea break, you head to the kitchenette, fill the kettle, and wait as it boils, leaning lightly against the counter. You pour the tea, stir in a splash of milk, and carry it back to your desk, the warmth seeping through the mug into your hands.

Back at your screen, you pause between emails, fingers hovering over the keyboard, and glance at the small weather widget in the corner of your screen. It’s jumped since the morning, 32 degrees Celsius now. You can still remember stepping out of the house earlier with that crisp chill in the air, wearing a coat.

Now the sunlight is streaming through the office windows, the kind that makes the air inside feel heavier. You can hear someone down the row mutter about needing to open another window, the warm breeze already pushing at the blinds.

It’s proper British summer, the kind where the morning tricks you into thinking it’ll be mild, and by midday, you’re wishing you’d worn something lighter.

The time passes in small bursts, ticking items off your list, printing letters, taking another call, answering another email. By the time your stomach gives the first reminder of hunger, the clock is edging toward twelve.

Lunch isn’t far off now.