The melancholy guy with the jack-russel and the chick that smells like lemons.

He walks in, leaving an invisible musky scent behind him. He slams his briefcase down on the table and unbuttons his jacket, slips it over the back of your chair, rolls up his sleeves and shouts orders at everyone- loudly. It makes your skin crawl, the mere fact that he is here. It makes your stomach drop and crushes your soul...not a lot, but enough to do serious, and lasting damage, bit by bit. There are rumours of his 'inappropriate behaviour with hot, blond employees'. He is Monday- and he echos that saying on the early morning Gareth Cliff show, "It's almost 9 o'clock- you've got to go to work!"

Tuesday arrives in the office. He's an accountant. Boring. Grey. All straight lines. He's the guy that usually brings bad news about your tax returns or the amount you have to pay for your parking disc. He's not loud and in-your-face but he definitely gets under your skin- enough to make you get up from your desk and take a walk outside. He gives you that feeling that you can't quite pin-point. It's not the Monday Blues..that's already been floating around for 24 hours now. It's like the smell of a smokey club the day after a huge party- stale and unpleasant. He's going bald and only uses deodorant every second day, just to be frugal. Tuesday never brings good news or makes you smile. Tuesday is someone you just have to tolerate-he's not your friend, he's simply that little grey man in the corner cubicle who makes you sigh and close down your Facebook page so that you can get back to work.

You meet Wednesday at the fridge in the kitchen. She's slightly overweight, could be attractive if she ate fewer pork-pies and laid off the Charlies Bakery every time a box of cupcakes arrived in the office. She came to your house once. It was a mistake inviting her for coffee because she arrived and talked for two hours solid. She's one of those annoying guests who don't just get up and ask, en route to the kettle, if they can make themselves some tea but sit and look pained and lifeless, begging you with their eyes because you have forgotten (due to the ringing in your ears from all their talking) to offer them something to drink. Wednesday sits and waits to be offered. Wednesday's visit is ok, it's generally mundane and it's great when it's over. Wednesday waddles back to her desk, collapses on her wheely-chair in a heap of sighs and random chatter, scratching the floor with the sudden movement. Watching her strike up a conversation with someone else in the office is definitely the best part of your encounter, as you know your 'Wednesday-duties' are over.

You pop out of the office around 10:00am to grab some coffee at Vida e cafe where you run into Thursday and nearly knock him out of his Converse sneakers. He gives you a warm smile (which turns your brain to mashed-potato and your knees to steamed green beans) and strikes up a conversation-strange seeing as though he rarely does this in the office. Thursday has an intoxicating vibe about him, something that can never be replicated. He floats around the office with his Moleskin notebook and trendy scarf wrapped strategically around his neck, smiling that wide smile at those lucky enough to catch his eye. He's so god-damn intriguing that it makes you relentlessly attracted to him. There's just something so care-free about that handsome beast that it makes you wonder what it is that he's on, or where he's getting the good stuff from. It's that lifestyle that's just out of your reach. Thursday is proof that there are good things just around the corner. You flirt with Thursday, but just as entertainment-he's far too into himself to ever be weekend material.

Friday's upstairs playing Foosball. She's always dressed in yellow and has 6 pairs of Haviana's. She arrived this morning with a full box of home-made cupcakes for the office. They're finished now, thanks to the binge-eating habits of Wednesday. Friday is the chick that you wish you could be. She's always fashionably late. She smells like lemons and vanilla essence. Her skin is tanned and freckles dance along the apples of her cheeks and the ridge of her nose. She swears from time-to-time, by no means a bible-bashing character, and cracks open a beer at 4:00pm with 'the guys' (who describe her as 'one of the boys...but with boobs') She works hard but plays hard, too. Slightly hippie at heart, a candle burns all day on Friday's desk.

Saturday works from home- he's a creative guy with big ideas. He sometimes ventures out and works from the comfort of the local Vida cafe, often only putting in a half day of work before the surf gets too good or the beach calls his name. He's a bronzed god and holds the coveted title of being an Iron-man. He's ripped but still eats burgers and drinks beer with the lads. Saturday is the guy who stands at the bar and laughs as beautiful women fawn over him, spraying him with compliments and showering him with love. Saturday earns a butt-load of cash and invests his money with Allan Gray. He's been seen driving an Audi R8 down the Camps-bay strip and Cafe Caprice had a chair made with the impression of his butt-cheeks- a sign hanging from it with the words "Reserved for Saturday- no flabby butts allowed". Rumour has it that He's got 'feelings' for Friday but no one's going to believe that Iron-man Saturday could be that soft and mushy inside.

Sunday owns the business. He and Saturday often 'hang-out' but he's more sophisticated and a little more mature than wiry Saturday. Sunday has that 'camel man' designer stubble, salt and pepper hair. You'll catch him, freshly showered, after a 60km mountain bike ride, smelling of Hugo Boss. He's barefoot and wears a pair of weathered Levis jeans. He's the only one allowed to sit in Saturday's seat at Caprice. Sunday drinks Peroni while he pages through the paper and scratches the head of Matheos, (Matty), the jack-russel. He has an incredibly hot wife-a cougar if you will- and drives a VW Tourag because he doesn't like to be too flashy. Sunday's the guy who's got everything, but has that oddly melancholy vibe about him, as if he feels like he's got nothing left to look forward to and nothing left to strive for. He's the man that everyone looks to for advice, reassurance and uses as an example. He's the guy that everyone wants to end up to be...everyone except Sunday, because if Sunday were happy to be himself, what would be left after that?

At the end of the day, Monday works late, Tuesday sits at home alone and Wednesday nurses her eating disorder and buys shoes because 'shoes always fit'. Thursday lights up a joint and flashes his intoxicating smile everywhere he goes, Friday leaves men falling over their feet as her long legs and high heels float past them and Saturday nurses his hang-over. Sunday watches Carte Blanche, waiting patiently for an email from Monday containing this fiscal year's figures, all the while thinking about his time gone by.