HIDDEN

Nothing dims the spirits and sours the mind quite like a night shift. Living in this parallel universe - awake while the rest of Britain sleeps - is not something I relish or enjoy. I only tolerate it because of what might come further down the line. But everyone has their breaking point.

I call one of the girls at work "The Mole". She comes in, moody and bleary-eyed, at the start of the shift. She plonks her stuff on a chair and then proceeds to switch most of the lights off. She usually hibernates for the first couple of hours of her shift. I'm sure that one day I'll creep up on her and find her burrowing under the editor's desk.

She also happens to be a bitch, spreading her poisonous gossip about anyone and everyone. No wonder I didn't recognise her when I first came back to work here. She was so bright and bouncy; she smiled. Then, when I saw her back on night-shifts, the true Mole revealed herself once more.

Before this last brace of nights I went to see "Hidden" at the cinema. The film is so subtle, understated and suspense-laden that it drew me in from the start. At one point the entire cinema gasped, in unison, at what was unfolding on screen. Those Froggies may snaffle billions a year in undeserved farm subsidies; prevent foreign firms from taking over theirs; and have a smarmy adulterer for a president, but they do from time-to-time make remarkably good films.

I would dearly love to write more, but it's 3.50am and I can barely keep my eyes open, much less think of anything worthy with which to fill these pages. Goodnight.