They still come in late, each having their own time, style and pattern of entry…

They still switch on the PCs and go off to have their first tea of the day…

They still take their bottles and fill them with water to keep by their seats…

They still gather around the tea machine and gossip, abandoning all sense of time…

They still drift outside with their mobiles and lose themselves in conversation…

They still go out for walks around Ground Zero after lunch…

The water that flows under the bridge isn’t the same. Yet everything appears to be: the shape, colour, texture. It just flows…

The tide is out. Who knows when it will rise again.