Work was a bore for almost everyone in the warehouse, though for Vince it was more so than others, with sniggering and jeering. Not to mention all the other stuff. The immaculately dressed receptionist smirked at him as her entered the foyer.

"You're late for the fourth time this week, Vince." She said curtly, handing over the sign-in book. Another smirk. Her teenage daughter rolled her eyes sympathetically in the background, balancing a baby on her hip, as it grizzled in defiance.

"Sorry. It was the bus." He mumbled, returning the pen and paper.

"It always the bus, Vince. If you're late again, I'm reporting you to the manager. I know what your type are like, lollygagging along." She eyed him up and down critically.

"Mum!" hissed the girl, looking severely embarrassed, laying the child down in a small cot. "Quit being such a bitch to everyone!"

"I beg your pardon?!" Replied her mother, outraged that her daughter had dared to answer back.

"You heard. I'm fed up of you slagging off me and my mates!"

"Well, you will insist on wearing all these mismatched clothes! Hang on…you mean to tell me your friends with…him?"

"Yeah, I talk to him at lunch, on the internet sometimes. So what?"

"You know what. How could you betray me like this, mind, you already have, going out and having that!" She gestured wildly to the newborn and sighed dramatically.

"What the hell do you mean betray? I don't want to grow up like you! You're tweedy and stuck up and nasty to everyone you meet!"

"Excuse me, Magda!? I meant betray by having this little bundle of joy when you are only 19! Do you know how ashamed I am?"

Vince turned his back on the increasingly loud scene and turned down the corridor to the staffroom; although "staffroom" seemed a strange terminology for something that was no more that a damp, bare room with a few chairs and some battered freestanding lockers that were about as strong as Paris Hiltons IQ, which is not very little at all considering the evidence. Anyway...

Sat in one of the bare corners was a small group of what could typically be described as blokey-blokes. Conversation dying down as he locked his things in for the day, friendly banter replaced by quiet, whispered jeering. Someone in particular shouted.

"Oi, look who it isn't!" The rest of the group collapsed into giggles. Slapping the person next to them on the back, as if congratulating one another.

"Whas' he wearing?"

"Bloody hell, I wouldn't be seen dead like that!"

Vince dug his nails into his palm and hid his tears behind his hair as he exited, trying to regain some form of composure before going through the daily chores of checking stock, serving blatantly rude and dull customers, then going home, hopefully before it got to dark and hopefully before everyone else.

Naff Christmas cards were pinned to the cork board next to the till, and through the window, a few factory girls on their way to work wore tinsel garlands round their hips or heads. Why were they all so cheerful? Christmas was just another season.

Suddenly, a thought struck him.

I can't go on like this...