A quiet interlude bounds up on an office which has been full of Christmas cheer for the last couple of weeks. I have been ill with a flu which has not gone away and even though amongst the office lights which give me migraines and the constant thought in my mind about the bitter coldness approaching us all in London, I have managed to find time to smile, laugh and make people laugh. We all like to think after a days work we all go home safely, we all go to our loved ones and smile about the day which has unfolded.

Unfortunately today is not that day.

What makes us human is when something effects us in some state. Something that encroaches on our comfortable lives and says to you in big neon lights 'You are not alone.' I look around work this morning and saw a few hang overs but smiles. A night beforehand of an office Christmas party where people had a very good time and recall the silly things to their colleagues of what happened. I'm still trying to take off the fantastic plastic which came out of the crackers and I managed to attach to my key ring last night, it was funny at the time, now it's annoying as it bulges in my right pocket. One of the bright green plastic sun's has already pinpricked itself a sketch in my leg. It's done within the amusement of Christmas cheer and endless bottomless wine glasses though, amongst your friends from work.

Unfortunately not even a smile can be made.

Think about the time you spend with your family at work. Because it does become a family. You entrust advice to these people you work alongside for months, years or a decade. You hear about their children growing up, maybe even lucky enough to have dinner with their family and thus returning the favour some day. You hear about the problems which happen, to divulge your illness and wearies, your vices and hates. You find yourself amongst these strangers you are thrown in the ring with each day. You find humour and your laughter is full of spirit. You are humbled and rejoiced at the beginning and ending of a week. Consider the forty plus hours you spend with this family per week and consider the endless other friends, loves and acquaintances you have passed through with over the years. Some you would wish to be still in contact with.

Unfortunately there is one now we cannot be.

I look at my boss now, who sits staring at a keyboard. I look at my colleagues around me who are finding it hard to work, to adjust to the shock which was unfolded to them only a few hours ago. I sit here angry. Angry that only last night I was joking with a man I use to call 'Monkey' in the amusement of his IT side-kick, who ironically enough I called 'Monkey' too. Monkey was a term I gave them because of their IT nature, they tested and ran the database we all used, they fix our problems and they are very sarcastic about it all. Monkey because when chocolate is around they climb over a desk to get to it. Monkey because both of their names are Mark. Only one Monkey remains today. A man crumbled at the thought of what happened to his colleague last night. Why he has not gone home is unknown to me.

Unfortunately we all share the burden of sorrow.

An evening ago, Mark who sat in the same Taxi as me and laughed with me and the other colleagues about the every day events of London, the haunts they used to go to while growing up and his wife refusing to drive at night because she thought she had 'tunnel vision'. He sat behind me while eating, turning occasionally to listen to part of a conversation or to add a little bit of the humour he liked to quip back upon. He left around 10pm, I don't even remember saying goodbye. Today at lunch the news of his death, a shock of pain, quiet whispers with tears and sobs, quiet footsteps followed by a hug, looks of despair and speechless expressions.

Unfortunately it becomes evident that we all think of his family before Christmas because unfortunately for Mark's kids their Santa won't be around this year.

I'm angry because he was killed.
I'm angry because I cannot find reason.
I'm angry because I feel human again.