Where's Bob Hoskins then?
We’re counting down to an office move here and things are getting so tense you can taste it (in case you’re wondering, tension tastes slightly coppery).
Why? Well, as a species, office drones are territorial. Neurotic. Petty. Suspicious and naturally adverse to change. This is because like Hamlet, they suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, which you can also interpret as being powerless and suffering a thousand little indignities a day - but at least you still rule over your own kingdom - the square footage of your desk - and your people - in most cases a collection of those troll dolls.
The neurotics fall into three different categories. There are the obsessive compulsives, who either have no tea-ring on their desks because they clean their desk all the time, or have no tea-ring on their desk because they put their cup down on the same spot every single time. There are anal-expulsive, who have incredibly clean and tidy desks (these are the people you worry will have the hardest time getting alojng in jail when they eventually snap and attack somebody with a stapler, because they might get a messy cell-mate). Finally there are the anal retentive/lazy sods. These are the people with an Everest of crap on their desks. That’s me.
Just because I have an unread office bulletin from 1998 sitting on my desk that’s informing me of the possible problems of the Millennium Bug does not mean that I might not someday need it. Probably in 993 years’ time.
I’m not as bad as some - there are desks here that have not seen daylight since Gladstone was PM. These are usually owned by people who have unopened boxes and crates still sitting unpacked from their last move, three years ago. They are either slightly strange or, more probably, have something lurking there which still has a ‘to do’ tab on it and they just can’t throw it away.
For the ritualists, a move to another building, no matter how temporary (at least that’s what the suits say) is going to be a big deal. No druid watched the moon for the right time to do vile things to a goat more ardently than the ritualists observe the times and geography of the office, whether it be going for a fag, coffee or a visit to the loo it’s all about being in control - even if your nicotine craving, caffeine craving or bowel is actually controlling you.
To facilitate the fear and anguish the suits upstairs have deployed office Nazis. Do you recall those concentration camp guards in ‘Schindler’s List’ that whipped the campers along? That’s what these people are like, except with clipboards and less personality.
The long term plan is to move us all back to the original building, but to smaller desks - a quart and pint pot type scenario. God knows what will happen then, I suppose protesting drones will be chaining themselves to railings and wailing that they can’t leave their new home, that’ they’ve put down roots and that it’s wrong to try and move them. The situation will probably end up requiting UN peacekeepers, or at least lots of coffee. All I know is that while the people I share an office with are, of course, lovely, that perception has been greatly aided by the office I inhabit and the thick, thick door I can slam shut whenever I feel like it. I am, of course, under no illusion that it is that same office and door that makes me bearable to the people I share the floor with.
Why? Well, as a species, office drones are territorial. Neurotic. Petty. Suspicious and naturally adverse to change. This is because like Hamlet, they suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, which you can also interpret as being powerless and suffering a thousand little indignities a day - but at least you still rule over your own kingdom - the square footage of your desk - and your people - in most cases a collection of those troll dolls.
The neurotics fall into three different categories. There are the obsessive compulsives, who either have no tea-ring on their desks because they clean their desk all the time, or have no tea-ring on their desk because they put their cup down on the same spot every single time. There are anal-expulsive, who have incredibly clean and tidy desks (these are the people you worry will have the hardest time getting alojng in jail when they eventually snap and attack somebody with a stapler, because they might get a messy cell-mate). Finally there are the anal retentive/lazy sods. These are the people with an Everest of crap on their desks. That’s me.
Just because I have an unread office bulletin from 1998 sitting on my desk that’s informing me of the possible problems of the Millennium Bug does not mean that I might not someday need it. Probably in 993 years’ time.
I’m not as bad as some - there are desks here that have not seen daylight since Gladstone was PM. These are usually owned by people who have unopened boxes and crates still sitting unpacked from their last move, three years ago. They are either slightly strange or, more probably, have something lurking there which still has a ‘to do’ tab on it and they just can’t throw it away.
For the ritualists, a move to another building, no matter how temporary (at least that’s what the suits say) is going to be a big deal. No druid watched the moon for the right time to do vile things to a goat more ardently than the ritualists observe the times and geography of the office, whether it be going for a fag, coffee or a visit to the loo it’s all about being in control - even if your nicotine craving, caffeine craving or bowel is actually controlling you.
To facilitate the fear and anguish the suits upstairs have deployed office Nazis. Do you recall those concentration camp guards in ‘Schindler’s List’ that whipped the campers along? That’s what these people are like, except with clipboards and less personality.
The long term plan is to move us all back to the original building, but to smaller desks - a quart and pint pot type scenario. God knows what will happen then, I suppose protesting drones will be chaining themselves to railings and wailing that they can’t leave their new home, that’ they’ve put down roots and that it’s wrong to try and move them. The situation will probably end up requiting UN peacekeepers, or at least lots of coffee. All I know is that while the people I share an office with are, of course, lovely, that perception has been greatly aided by the office I inhabit and the thick, thick door I can slam shut whenever I feel like it. I am, of course, under no illusion that it is that same office and door that makes me bearable to the people I share the floor with.
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