"As fer you, ye filthy besom," she said. “Ye do aw this jus fer th’devilment o’ah, ken that ye do, ye cheeky wee monkey, you …”, and she shifted the coffee cups on the desk. Nearby, the consultants briefly raised their eyes; they had twenty years service, each year more silent than the last. But she had nothing to lose, and perhaps this was one of those rare games the Director had lost from the start, so it was best to pretend you weren’t playing it, anyway. The Mop’s gestures became stylised; she was playing to the floor, and the consultants looked on with awe as she needlessly rattled the pencils and shifted the papers he was working on, simultaneously acknowledging the limits of her influence, and wreaking her revenge upon them.

At last it is dark; the Big Man gropes his way through the empty corridors alone. Passing the shower, - “Oh well, it’s the blue spots, again …” a voice declares with weary wonder – and, like the blether of the Mop, it is a momentary kiss, an inexplicable rapport with the world which can only exist in passing.