Who needs Big Brother, when real life is so much more random and various?

From my office window, I can see quite clearly across the road to the roof of another office building. Every day for the last week or so, there has been a man sitting up there, six floors above the ground, on the corner of the building.

Perched on the protective guardrail with his legs dangling over the edge, he seems to be singing, or perhaps talking to himself. He swigs occasionally from a bottle of water, and plays with his hair.

Every day he sits up there for half an hour or so, and it makes me wonder whether he has actually told his manager and colleagues that he’s got a meeting, and then disappeared up to the rooftop to watch the traffic stream by on the ground, and the aeroplanes pass overhead.

Or maybe he’s considering jumping. But for someone suicidal, he looks awfully calm, swinging his legs over six storeys of empty space and singing at the top of his voice.

Our office windows are mirrored glass and cannot be opened. I see him, every day on the rooftop in his private headspace, but he cannot know I am watching. It feels guilty and secret, as if I shouldn’t be looking.