The clock from St Cuthberts chimes the hour of six, and my breath explodes into the air. I stick to the low roads through the city on my walk home; low, to avoid the icy blasts of wind and the frozen mist. I took the high roads this morning, around the side of the castle. I was dressed like I'm always dressed, summer or winter nothing changes in my attire. I watched my hands turn red by degrees, firey complainants against my treatment of them.









It was cold at lunchtime when I stepped outside. Scott had spent the morning spouting his latest completely unfounded transfer rumour - that Vladimir Romanov had offered to match any offer from Rangers or anyone else for Derek Riordan. I expressed some cynicism in this latest story.
"You don't believe me?"
"Let's just say when you open your mouth, I open a sachet of salt"
He insisted this one was different, this was stone cold fact. Sitting around the table for lunch, I opened up the sports pages of the Edinburgh Evening News and read aloud -
Hearts have made no approach for Hibs striker Derek Riordan despite rumours over the last 24 hours suggesting that Romanov was mounting a late bid for the player, who is a target for Rangers. A Hearts spokesman said today: "I can categorically state that there has been no interest from Hearts in Derek Riordan."
His face wore that same blank expression that has become so familiar. Simpson immediately moved on the offensive.
"I hear that Hearts are on the verge of signing Caravaggio."
"Who?"
"He's an Italian... noted for his artistry in midfield."
My face betrayed no signs of outward emotion. We've been playing this game for some weeks, ever since he told us that Hearts were on the verge of signing Robbie Fowler and Henrik Larsson. It was a story so ridiculous that I told him my source had told me we were on the verge of signing Josef Stalin.
"Who?" he enquired. Simpson stifled laughter while I ran with it.
"A Russian forward... very attack minded."
We saw that blank expression then, and again a few days ago when I told him we were set to sign Ehud Barak, an Israeli defender who had once been one of the top players in Israel.

All along the low roads the snow had dried up, the frost receded; driven back by the heat of machinery and the pounding of feet. The working day had been long, longer than usual. I had to make my flex time back up to zero, from a state of -1:30. I told Scott that he would be requested to do the same when he had his 1to1 meeting with the manager. He was quick to protest, saying that the staff handbook said you could go as low as -2:00, and insisting that he would fight the point. "I can be very argumentative when I get going". I suggested that this, combined with the fact that he does roughly 1/5 as much work as everyone else in the department, and does so with a 50% failure rate, and that out of the 7 weeks we have worked there he has taken 3 off through sick days and holiday, perhaps wouldn't paint him in the best light. He said he didn't care, because the job was "boring" anyway. This man is 35 years old. He has a daughter.

"Think of all the time you spend at work in your life" Dan had said the previous night in a familiar corner of Whistle Binkie's.
"I'd rather not".
"No, but just think about it. You probably spend 50% of your day at work, or on lunch, or travelling to or from work. Think how much of your life you spend in that environment. Then think about how many memories you take from it. Think of a job you had 5 years ago - what do you remember from it? Almost nothing. A few little anecdotes that fit into a tiny compartment of your brain. You spend so much time there, but you remember almost nothing, because there's just nothing worth remembering. I find that incredibly depressing."
"So do I. So thanks for that thought."

Sometimes I do remember things, and sometimes I write things down after they happen. Things I've seen, heard, thought about, pictures of places I've been, even if it's just the walk to and from work. Going into the shop on my way home, I overhear someone saying "Mowbray has to go. He's won fuck all for us. Nowt. He's won nothing." Hardly memorable, but now it's written down, it's become permanent, so it can't be entirely worthless. Can it?