As you may imagine, I can be quite persuasive when I want to be.

And so, a matter of a fortnight after the formulation of my plan, we began to rearrange the large office area outside my window. Well, you didn't imagine I was going to work, myself, in an open plan office, did you? That would have missed the point altogether.

The thing is, you see, and this is where my brainwave fits in, as I sat at my desk one dull Friday afternoon, idly sticking pins into a rudimentary doll, fashioned out of a giant ball of blue-tack, of my bête-noir, Mrs Abbott I glanced up at the ugly venetian blinds covering the large window which looked into the main office beyond. Getting up, I opened up the blinds and had a look. It was a very large room, with a number of offices for the senior managers running along the side; mine was the last, and so the wall to my right was the external wall of the building, and obviously it formed the furthest extent of the office in front of me also.

Which meant that anyone sitting opposite my window would not have people surrounding them on all sides.

And this was the moment of my brainwave. Put Mr Loverman's desk there, directly in front of my office window, and with a bit of judicious desk-placement and furniture alignment, he would be largely invisible to everyone in front of him, and with no prying eyes behind him. Of course, it would be demeaning for him to be moved into the general office with the rest of the staff, as he currently had his own private office. He was, remember, technically senior to me, and for him to be asked to work in an open plan environment while I retained my own office would be a humiliating slight. As if I cared. When I explained the plan to him he went red in the face and began to bluster and create a scene. I calmly put an end to that puerile display by grabbing his nuts through his regulation grey trousers and squeezing until his eyes were streaming. After that, he realised what a good idea it was, and I was given approval for the move round.

Which is why, that Monday morning, I pulled up the venetian blinds which were normally kept quite shut, and calmly observed the scene outside my window. I had moved my own desk nearer the window, and as I sat back in my chair, I reflected with some satisfaction that I had a perfect view of Mr Loverman, who was sitting morosely at his desk staring into space. I had ensured it was at 90º to my window, with a divider screen in front of it, so that only his head was visible to people close by, and a filing cabinet placed to the side to conceal the view of the secretarial assistant whose desk was further back, and to the side of Mr Loverman's. After everyone had left on the Friday evening, I had spent some time walking round the office and I was satisfied that his desk was well hidden from prying eyes. Except mine, of course. Time for some fun, I thought.

Turning to my laptop, I quickly tapped out an email to Mr Loverman. Naturally, our emails are routinely intercepted by the IT department, so I wasn't about to put anything explicit in it. Instead, I wrote: "Graham, could you please let me see Mr L's log." Suitably anodyne for any snooping IT people, but clear enough for Mr Loverman to understand, I thought. As I sent the message I looked out of the window, and almost instantly I saw his head jerk up as his PC notified him of the incoming email. He read it, a frown extending across his brow, and looked over at me, uncertainly. Of course, I had forgotten that he was as thick as pig-shit and my message was too subtle for him.

"Sorry," he emailed back, "which log?"

"The one with the red shoeprints all over it," I replied. Realisation dawned, a look of horror sweeping over his face. He looked at me through the window, his head shaking slowly, eyes pleading, like a puppy which wants a walk. I nodded once, emphatically, and sat back in my chair.

It took a moment before he began to comply. Distractedly, he looked around the office, trying to discern whether he could be overlooked by any of his colleagues. I already knew, of course, that he couldn't, and waited impatiently for him to begin.

And then he did.

Even from the distance I was I could see that his face was completely red: talk about giving yourself away. The only part of him the others could see, and it was signalling his guilt as clearly as a signed confession in triplicate. What an idiot the man was. He sat forward in his chair and began fumbling; from his hand movements I could tell he was unbuckling his belt, and a moment or two later he sat back in his chair and swung round to face me, his cock dangling in front of him. I smiled. Standing up, I did an impression of someone pulling down their trousers, and once more a look of horror crossed his face. At least this time he had understood my message. Lifting himself slightly in his chair, he pulled down his trousers and sat facing me with them draped around his ankles.

I went back to my laptop. "No," I typed, "that's not the one. That's the condensed version. I want to see the full log." With a smug grin, I tapped the send button.