Ah, the sweet haven of my music. I would go completely and utterly nuts if I had to work without my musical security blanket. I mean, it’s not a literal blanket; but when I put my earphones in and the noise of the office disappears, I am soothed.

They tried to make me work like the others, once. Told me that I was being anti-social and I was bad for the team dynamics. They took my earphones away for the day and I barely managed half the work I normally would. I got them back the very next day.

People don’t even talk to me. I get emails if they want me to do something. It all minimises my stress and maximises my work rate, but now and again someone will question what I do. Like just now, at lunch.

“Hey, Pete.” Susan, one of the new girls, smiles as she joins me in the lunch queue.

“It’s Peter, actually.”

“Oh. Sorry.” She blushes and reaches for a bottle of water from the fridge.

“I just thought I’d say hello, as you’ve had your earphones in all morning.”

Now I wish I hadn’t taken them out to queue for lunch. But Maureen gets grumpy if I leave them in, and then I end up with small portions.

“Hello.” I reply less than enthusiastically.

“Why do you listen to your music all the time? Don’t you get lonely?”

This is not a new question. Lots of girls ask it at one time or another. Blokes tend to be far more adept at reading my ‘Don’t bother me.’ signals.

“Nah, I like to work on my own.” I turn to Maureen and ask for my usual. She piles the sausage and chips onto my plate, then dribbles on the gravy. I smile my thanks and Maureen gives me a little wobbly wink.

“Can I sit with you?” She asks as I pay. I roll my eyes.

“If you like,” I reply,putting my earphones back in then shrugging.

I walk off, Five for Fighting soothing me with the haunting sound of Superman. Susan looks puzzled, then sits on a table with the others. I sit in the corner, alone with my music. Sweet Heaven.

***

Another day, another invoice. I sit down and check my email. I’m surprised to see a message from the boss. Well, more apprehensive really; he only mails me if he wants something boring or messy done.

Peter,

We have a new girl starting today, Chloe. She’s taking over from Charlie and will be sat next to you. I expect you to be polite and helpful. Do not ignore the new girl, on pain of redundancy, Yours,

Trev.

It’s amazing what you can find online, especially when you’re not really looking for it. I was bored, blocked and searching for inspiration for my latest romance tale when I came across Thirty-Something, a forum created specifically for those folks slipping genteelly into middle-age.

I joined out of curiosity and boredom really, but I found myself amongst like-minded procrastinators from the world over. Within a matter of days, I’d created hundreds of posts. After a couple of months, I had established friendships with people throughout the globe.

I kept strictly to the nice threads and questions on the board and avoided controversy and debate. It seemed they always turned nasty. I’m more of a “give peace a chance” kind of girl. So, it was a bit of a surprise to find a full-fledged debate raging in an innocuous thread started by a friend. Just a thread about preparations for Christmas. One person stated that October was far too early to be thinking about Christmas and the thread totally derailed into a discussion of commercialism and the apparent exploitation of the purchasing public.

I was intrigued. Normally such in-depth debate would send me scampering to a safe, fluffy thread on favourite colour or bands or simple word association. However, I found one of the posters in this argument fascinating. William Blake was not a name that I’d run across before and with it being the Internet, I was pretty certain it was neither his real name nor the eighteenth century poet resurrected. The little picture beside his post, something I knew was called an avatar, or AV for short, was a smug-looking handsome young man, gazing into a camera.

“Hot,” I exclaimed, fanning myself. As I continued to read through his posts I found him intelligent and witty, too. Unfortunately, the end of the debate had changed from intellectual exchanges of opinion to open mud-slinging. In an effort to calm the situation, I took a long time composing my opinion. I incorporated a plea for a return to intelligent debate, since posturing whilst slinging insults was not helping anyone prove their point.

I was delighted when a little box flashed up on my screen, proclaiming, “You have a new Private Message from William Blake.”

You’re right. I lost my temper, will cool down before posting there again. Thanks.

It was not the most exciting PM ever. The words and message were unexceptional. Only the identity of the sender made it extraordinary. I spent several minutes composing a reply, as I knew it was an opportunity to get to know the handsome rebel better. I sent my message masterpiece off into the ether and settled down to wait for a reply. To bide the time, I read through his past posts.

“No wonder we never crossed paths,” I Mumbled, as I read yet another contentious political debate thread. “He posts on everything I don’t.” I was disappointed not to receive a reply straight away, but people have lives away from the computer. So I waited patiently. I enjoyed looking through his old posts, anyway. I was intrigued to find he was significantly younger than the thirty years stated in the forum name. He’d stumbled across the forum while researching something for his latest company. He was a whiz kid, a successful businessman and a sharp debater; my complete opposite. I waited tables in a local café to make ends meet whilst I pretended to have a career in writing. I was getting stories published, but I wasn’t challenging JK Rowling is the sales stakes.

I couldn’t get the guy out of my mind and, as we’d barely interacted, it was kind of worrying. I logged off the Internet and attempted to concentrate on the novel I was working on at the time. As I tapped away at my laptop keys, I found myself placing William’s features on the character I was writing. The scene twisted into something completely unsuitable for a non-erotic historical romance. “Why, Sir, you flatter me.” She giggled and hid behind her fan.

“But you are the most beautiful and desirous female her,” he replied, his dark, almost black eyes fixing her in their gaze. “I want you, Mary and I want you now. Right here on this dining table. Push away the cutlery, candlesticks and napkins and lie down for me, whilst I undo all your layers and bury my face in the sweet musky smell of your muff.”