20:55: Well, I took a tincture with AG, then Johnny and Owen, then a malt whiskey in the pub on Hanlon's Corner called Hanlon's on my own, all contemplative, like. As a result, this is the end of today's postage, I'm none the wiser about my job than when I started this morning but it's been a bizarrely good day.
14:44: Out of here soon, just have to finish off this occursed preview. I pass John Mulligan of Poolbeg Street on my way to the bus stop. I may take a tincture.
14:06: My last hour of work. Note to Niamh B: The world number five won the US Open in 2006 despite being unfancied at the start of the tournament. Getting tired now, the office feels like a Bank Holiday, dead air and regret. Or maybe it's the comedown from one collective caffeine high.
12:39: Away from talk of takeovers and tenders, my cholesterol is almost back to normal levels for a man of my vintage and carriage. Those Yoplait 'Essence' drinks really do the job, big improvement on seven months ago.
Still no lunch, but there could be a burger in the offing. A cheap one, mind. Recession.
11:46: Trying to write a piece about the golfer Geoff Ogilvy and have retyped the same line 17 times, which means it's been written 18 times. Good to see the atmosphere in here hasn't fucked with my pedantry. Incidentally, Kath, the cream cheese is gone and the crisis hasn't been averted, unfortunately. The jokes have stopped and nerves abound.
11:12: We're still in business. Something about 'seeing the glass as half full and there's definitely more liquid in it than there was yesterday.' So that's alright then.
10:40: Five minutes until the meeting. The funny thing is that I KNOW I gave someone a loan of €57million last week in the pub, but I was locked so can't remember who it was exactly. Pisses me off. I'd be able to sort this mess out.
10:27: Note to Red: Not sure that's what is meant by a fire sale. Also, I really should do some work. But probably won't.
10:19: Note to Niamh B: No donuts. I have some cream cheese on my chin and have just written my first article of the day. More and more people drifting into the office, some more furrowed than others. The lads in my section are hungover and humorous.
Gallows humour 1: "We'll get some cans and sit on the fake astroturf, waiting for the end to come. Locked."
09:55: The Chairman is addressing us all at 10:45. I'd better write some journalism and finish this bagel. Nothing to put a hunger on a man like the threat of impending doom.
09.49: I'm blogging the day. A live blog, is it? Anyway, I'm going to try and blog the day because writing injury updates and football transfer rumours seems so, like, the safety of last week.
I got to the office this morning at 7am and was pleased to note my way unbarred by men in suits carrying calculators and truncheons. I had the first coffee of the day, refreshed the email and managed to glean some information from the company's chief accountant. There is some hope, some faint hope, that there might be a saviour at hand.