...And so they begin

7.15am. My journey to work begins. I walk into the tube station, grab a Metro and head for the escalators. A mob of sullen-faced, seat-hungry city-workers rush behind me and I find myself in a bitter feud with stilettos and laptop-cases; mini flasks and gym bags. Their glum faces do nothing for me on this miserable Monday morning. I ram my way through and finally manage to cram a space between two heavy-loaded rucksacks and what seems to be an ipod under a hood. As comfortably positioned as I can be, I look down at my crumpled Met and sigh. But it is too early in the morning to moan, so I fidget around, open the front page and perform my first ritual of the day.

I am a Londoner.

8.00am - bang on time. I exit the station and head towards the office. The security guard flashes a smile at me as I walk through the barriers, and then to the escalator that eventually takes me to my office, towering over the river. I walk onto my open-plan prison, decaff latte in tow, wave to my one random colleague and switch on my PC. I log on and wait to start my first non-official task for the day - skim-read every news site I can in search of a story; a story that will in someway concern me; a story that will somehow affect me.

I am a British Muslim.