Additionally, these last two weeks or so, I can't help shake the feeling that . . .
. . . perhaps it's part of my education as a History graduate, but I tend to reflect on past events, and eventually dig out things I missed when the occurance -erm - occured (what?! It's late and I am feeling unimaginative in my utilisation of vocabulary) and so it is fair to say that I am momentarily somewhat riled. I keep being told that I am 'a really nice person'; the truth is, I'm actually not, I can just disguise it incredibly well; cutting remarks, bitchiness and downright petulance are just three of the services I offer, and I do so hate attempting to take the moral high ground at times - it clashes horribly with my never-ending mission to get the last word in.
Anyway, since Gareth claimed earlier that I have 'gone all weird' recently, I suppose I shall cease my grumblings and lighten the mood which I have worked so hard to darken thus far.
Like most people, I loathe my job . . . I mean really loathe my job. True, I was once told by my boss to spend four hours doodling because there wasn't much work for me to do, but when I compare that to the cushy job I had at Durham County Council, I pretty much had two years worth of being paid to doodle and invent ever more productive ways to be unproductive with my existence.
Alas, t'was not just me that had this issue, but everyone in the office . . .
On a bright day in the North East of England (which obviously means that the sun held absolutely no warmth) I arrived at work, turned my computer on . . . and turned the Metro newspaper I picked up to the 'Puzzles' section. T'was at this precise moment, when I reached for my trusty chewed Biro, that I realised that not all was as it should be in my domain, and there was an evil presence. Everything on my desk had gone; my stationary, my pile of papers (which I was relatively pleased with at the time) my foot stool, even my football boots from the drawer had all gone missing.
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| Because nothing says you're bemused more than a Togepi armed with a banana . . . |
In a state of puzzlement, I raised my newspaper, half expecting to find all of my missing possessions underneath it. Alas, there weren't there, but I did find something of great importance to unravelling this spiralling conspiracy (for there was an awful lot of poker-faces around the office.) The note conveyed the following message;
"At 09:30, go to the fax machine."
I checked my watch; 08:46. It was here that I began to realise the full extent of the malevolent goings-on surrounding me; this was no simple "oh let's hide all 'le Silk's' stuff". No, this was on a par with the Da Vinci Code. I waited tentatively, and even had to sacrifice my 09:30 scone time (oddly, in Durham you are considered 'la de dar' if you pronounce 'scone' properly, for it is allegedly a 'sconn', which in Derbyshire is considered the 'la de dar' terminology for said bread-based product). At 09:31, the fax machine began to violently hum it's distress call of having a function, so I sprang into action, hoping for my next clue to retrieving my Biro (for I do enjoy chewing my Biro's to buggery) and I suppose my football boots weren't particularly cheap either.
I received what I can only describe as a treasure map . . . directing me into the ladies toilets.
With the evident look of mortification on my face, there was a ripple of sniggering, and then a suspicious lack of eye-contact.
After what I can only describe as a sinister amount of time to be waiting outside the opposite gender's restroom, I was confident that the coast was clear . . . so in I went.
My stapler awaited me inside, with a stapled treasure map lodged in it's unforgiving jaws.
And so the trend continued; I followed the treasure map down two flights of stairs to a meeting room and found my calculator hideously tangled with my sellotape reel with another treasure map. Now, the Council building was fairly sizeable; 12 floors, if I remember correctly, and I was being forced to spirograph my way through it's maze to find my possessions. The last item to be retreived were my football boots, which were in the room directly above mine (according to the crude drawings I was presented) and it was here where I uncovered the mastermind of the hideous ploy, beaming with smug satisfaction.
That Rebecca from upstairs . . . I shook
my fist in her general direction.
However, this was not my favourite memory of working in an office, no. That came nearly a year later, when I was working in Mansfield. T'was the day of the Royal wedding, and some jester at work decided that it would be brilliant if everyone came to work as if they were going to the Royal wedding . . . for some reason. Well, no one out-jests me . . . no one!
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| You need security at a Royal wedding. Oh yes ladies and gents, I'm not just a freakishly girly face. |
Please not that I am sat down, and whilst I'm doing my best to look like I'm deep in thought (as it was my boss who took this photo) that folder spent most of the day lying across my lap.
Why, you ask?
Well, it was the first time I had donned such a costume, and unfortunately it was only about twenty minutes in to my nine hour shift when my co-worker Mark noticed that my trousers . . . how to say . . . were somewhat unforgivingly tight around the crotchal region. Being the first to notice, he seemed to delight in spreading this information to everyone else in the office . . . and then asked me to come over to his desk (which was greeted with much cackling).
It turns out that, on this occasion, I was out-jestered . . . TWICE!
Michala, the manager of the sales team, was wiping her tears away at the . . . unfortunate show I inadvertedly put on, and declared "oh I can't take it" whilst she weeped feebly. Mark's riposte?
So I slinked off to my desk, placed a folder over my lap, and rued the day I got a 'good idea' whilst on eBay. Still, the torment was not over; at lunch-time, Hollie came over to my fortress . . .
Hmph, last time I try and do anything novel and a bit quirky . . . in theory.
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