These days, I don’t often have cause to encounter the Metro newspaper that clutters the entirety of the London public transport system of a morning. For something that used to play a vaguely significant role in my morning routine, I feel I should miss it.
The truth of the matter is that I don’t. In fact, I’m rather glad that I don’t encounter it, as it saves me from the temptation to read it. The paper is a muddle of articles partly recycled from the previous day’s Evening Standard, awkwardly-written “light interest” items, and a crossword.
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Over the course of my life, I’ve managed to beat several addictions. From the trivial (such as managing to stop biting my nails last year) to the very serious (the likes of which I won’t go into now), there’s a great sense of pride and achievement to be derived from managing to give up doing something bad.
The observant amongst you may have noticed that I’ve been away recently: in glorious Pembrokeshire for a few days and then on England’s south coast over the weekend. Almost accidentally, these breaks from the routine became the perfect opportunity to tackle my last significant addiction.
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Every Friday, at ten in the morning, they let the fire alarms off. I’m not sure why, I think it’s a tradition or something. Only this morning, they didn’t turn it off. Not until the 600-strong call centre were all enjoying the biggest cigarette break the company has ever staged.