Sitting in the canteen at work is a hobby of mine, I suppose. People come and go; some see me and want a chat; some don't. It makes no difference to me so long as I don't make anyone uncomfortable. Watching a person is great exercise. It's even better when they don't know that they are the prey.

Jeff stands at the vending machine with his back to me. I have always been curious as to what it would be like to smash the glass with someone's face. I might push the head down, using the glass to slice the neck. How would the blood go? Would it be a gushing mess or a rapid dribble? Maybe it would be disappointing, like when you cut your arm badly but very little blood comes at first, but then the wound fills with blood and just runs warm and free.

"Harry, are you ok, Buddy?"

I snapped out of my fantasy because of this person who thinks he is safe around me. It takes me a second to think of his name, as he isn't any more important to me than the fly stuck to the flypaper in the corner of the room.

"MARTIN!"

My first word came out as a shout, and he jumped.

"Sorry, mate, I was miles away there just thinking about... Well, you know, err porn."

I think I dodged any awkward questions there. He is laughing lightly and pats me on the shoulder. He stinks of fags mixed with deodorant, like he knows he stinks but can't be arsed doing anything better than squirting deodorant around.

I might not have the most fascinating job in the world, but it helps to keep a low profile. I clock in at eight every day, not the same time, sometimes early or sometimes late. This is on purpose to keep my movements unpredictable but not out of the ordinary. I work until four-thirty, taking my breaks like everyone else. When I leave, I get in my ten-year-old red car. I chose red as it is a popular colour. I drive home and research serial killers.

I haven't acted on my urges yet, but I am finding it harder and harder every day. Tonight I will be watching a documentary on Ted Bundy. It's not the first time that I've seen it, and it won't be the last. All these programmes and books are guides on how not to get caught. I look for where they went wrong. Take Ted, for example. One of his mistakes, in my opinion, was keeping the same car.

I'm sitting in my favourite armchair with a cup of tea on one side and a bowl of cereal on the other. Something that keeps coming up about serial killers is that most of them start off when they are younger, killing small animals. Some have a history of violence. Not me, though animals are great and don't deserve the same pain and misery as people do. An animal has as much right to life, if not more, than a human; they are just following instinct, which we know better.

The documentary was over, and I got myself ready for bed. In bed, my nightly read at the moment is about a lovely clown who took college boys in and killed them after sodomising them. He is a very interesting individual; he managed to become one of the biggest serial killers in history by burying the bodies under his house. I think his longevity was down to his choice of victim. He chose college boys that didn't stay in the area long normally and the locals wouldn't miss. To hide the smell of the bodies, he covered them in lime. His neighbour told him that because he thought he had broken sewer pipes. Drifting off, I have sweet dreams of death.