Office Troll

Print Jobs

My boss often forwards me emails with attachments for me to print. But I don't think he was paying much attention when he forwarded me something this morning, and asked me to print the content of a link. Only thing, the link was to a video. Nothing dubious, just some boring speech.

This has happened before when there are links involved; he just doesn't read the emails properly. What I find particularly amusinig is the reply that he gives to the sender: 'Thanks X/Y/Z, this looks really interesting, I'll check it out' - when he clearly hasn't even bothered clicking on the link...

The Birthday Planner

Everything has been quiet at The Institute after then fun and frolics that followed the Bored Meeting. This week, The Professor was dragged away on a city break by his wife for a very special celebration: his 50th birthday. As a result, I've been getting hardly any emails, save for the odd one that he manages to sneakily send from his Blackberry (his wife cunningly booked a holiday where the G3 signal is patchy at the best of times).

In typical - actually, stereotypical - secretary fashion, I have therefore made it a personal mission to organise a belated birthday celebration on his return. Out of sheer desperation for some frivolous behaviour, I started to plan this two weeks in advance. I researched what kind of stuff he's into, blocked time in the diary for the gift-giving gathering, scoured the internet for cool presents that don't involve anything remotely ethnic, or fair-trade, or eco-friendly. In the end, I opted for this  since The Professor is a self-defined 'music freak' and a Clash mug - apparently he sometimes joins the 'house band' to sing Clash covers.

But my greatest effort has been the creation of the ultimate birthday card: using my rudimentary Photoshop skills, I've managed to paste the Professor's head onto Wayne Rooney's body in a mock football magazine cover, so that the charismatic academic is forever immortalised as the captain of his favourite team.

The workies seem a little bit taken aback by my sudden enthusiasm: I am one step away from the full-blown J-Lo Wedding Planner type of stuff, complete with Blootooth headset, clipboard and snappy attitude. But what they don't realise is that I am absolutely starved for a bit of fun and work stupidity, something that I used to get a lot of at The Company. Here it's all about saving the world, starving children, starving farmers and women with droopy tits. I need to rock this place. This place needs ME.

The chances are that tomorrow will be a Big Disappointment

™ and that the boss will probably end up booking a meeting for the slot I reserved instead. At least, I will have tried. They will not get a second chance.

Coffee Crisis

Only in this place. 9:00 AM. I went to the only place that makes a half decent espresso in this wasteland, but as I tried to push the door, I realised that it was shut. Want to know why? Because the wretched place DOESN'T OPEN UNTIL 9:30!!! A coffee shop - a place that sells CAFFEINE!!!! Take me back to civilisation, or I'll slowly die here....

The Party That Never Was

I've had a few horribly busy week at The Institute and, as you can imagine, socialising with the workies has been low indeed on my list of priorities. But alas, last week it was Annual General Meeting time - a 2-day affair, in the name of which hundreds of trees are pulped every year to provide 'The Papers'. Lucky me: I was the one who had to photocopy them approximately 143 times, and then again, and again, because the muppets kept losing them. Still, copying the papers was not the worst job: having to actually read them would have definitely killed me. But I digress.

Every year, on the first evening of AGM Day 1, The Institute holds a reception at a nearby stately home and all staff and trustees are invited. Well, as you might remember from my days at The Company, I have never cared much for corporate 'fun', even when we were shipped to Monaco for the occasion; however this time my level of enthusiasm at the prospect was below zero. The poor workies, however, were buzzing with excitement. They told me epic tales of free drinks flowing like at Nero's household, and of my boss being so drunk that his wife had to stop him from making a speech. Debauchery, decadence, you name it, it was pretty much guaranteed.

You should have seen their faces, then, when they got there and realised that they would be lucky to get just one free drink out of it. As usual, these events suck: not only there was no Champagne, Prosecco or even Cava, but just wine (a drink that just doesn't numb the pain for me) but the food was crap too, the usual soggy mess of quiches and sandwiches and not a single piece of serving cutlery, either, so that people were having to help themselves with their bare hands. We would have had better service at the Institute's canteen.

And then....this is it. There were no embarrassing incidents, no cringy moments, no drunken boss mooning the Chairman. Nothing. Just boredom. When I finally managed to leave, I thought longingly about the days at The Company, when at least I had the guarantee that someone would do something spectacularly stupid, or annoying, or even both.

I missed my morons.

All You Need Is Boobs

Well, almost. After 5 months of relentless political correctness at The Institute, my real frivolous self is desperate to come out. There is no shopping to be done at lunchtime, except for bagels and cut-price newspapers (the Daily Telegraph is the cheapest at £0.30, because it's pro-Tory and therefore A Bad Thing, so that's the one I buy to stick it to the man). Online shopping is arduous too, as people constantly come into my tiny, shoebox-sized office to use the printer. It's a hard life. All I want is a bit of glamour, a bit of fun. So last Sunday, when I met up with Laura from The Company (do you remember Laura? My ally and protegee?), I dragged her to Bravissimo and treated us to some new bras. After much pondering, I eventually settled for two of the most cleavage-enhancing, pneumatic-effect inducing ones. Here's what they look like. 

Eat this, Institute: you can test me every day with your noble actions to save the world from hunger, global warming and gender inequality; you can take away my rights to a kettle, a fridge and a full size mirror in the ladies'. But you cannot, I repeat, you CANNOT take away my right to supreme BOOBAGE.

 

Bigmouth (almost) strikes again

I very nearly made another terrible faux-pas the other day - possibly the worst in my 5 months here.

I was talking to Wilma, one of the administators in the Office Services department, thanking her profusely for helping me with a massive photocopying job that I really couldn't have handled by myself. She said that it was no problem at all, it was her job to help with photocopying. But I just have to turn on the drama of a few notches even when it's not stricly necessary. 'Oh but you don't understand', I carried on, 'Without your help I would have probably jumped out of that window by now' - and as I was saying that, I was pointing at the window behind her, which is only a short height from a paved patio area at the back of the canteen. 'But with my luck - ' I went on and then froze; I was going to add that jumping from the window wouldn't have killed me but rather I would have ended up in a wheelchair. I only stopped just in time, just a tiny nanosecond before blurting out my 'hilarious' comment, as I realised, to my horror, that sitting opposite Wilma was Barbara, who was working at the computer from the comfort of her WHEELCHAIR.

I mumbled something about 'not hurting myself very much' if jumping from that height, and then made a hasty retreat.

Phew.

Ooops!

I've been at The Institute for about 5 months now, and it's proving increasingly difficult to keep out of trouble. I keep putting my foot in it, managing to offend people whenever I attempt to make polite conversation.

A few weeks ago, after reading another vivid account of life at the Everest Base Camp, I asked my boss if he had ever been to Nepal. He said he hadn't but that he'd really like to visit. So I told him, enthusiastically: 'oh you should go and climb Everest then!'. His tone changed and he replied, in a rather sombre tone: 'Climb Everest... I can't even climb the stairs'.

Then I remembered: he has some problem with one of his knees, which causes his characteristic shuffling walk. Some days he virtually limps. Balls.

I made a quick retreat to my office.

Team Building Plans

One of my workies has been badgering us for days to organise a 'social event' for our team. In order to establish what fun activity we could partake in, she decided to round us all up for an after-work drink in the company bar. Great. 

The company bar is basically part of the canteen, with the bar side opening at 5:00 PM and the lingering smell of fried food and cabbage leftover from lunchtime.

Oh man. I won't even attempt to bore you with the conversations around the table. Just to give you an idea, a well spoken, MA-educated lady colleague was moaning that 'The Guardian is sooo middle-class' in a really really affected, truly excruciating annoying way. You get the idea.

No, the best bit was when they were throwing around ideas for the 'fun team event'. It started badly, with the usual mentioning of bowling; then improved slightly by a visit to one of the local arts festival comedy shows (crap but better than bowling). Then, a trip to the dogs' track was mentioned. DOGS TRACK? As if I want to see psychotic animals trained to run after a pretend rabbit? But it got worse. Oh yes. It got much worse.

The idea that seemed to be the most popular was...wait for it...

MACKAREL FISHING. I repeat. MACKAREL FISHING.

What the fuck? You want me to go KILL FISH for workie fun?

Trying to exercise as much self-control as I was capable of, I managed to be diplomatic and tactfully but firmly point out that under no circumstances I am getting involved in animal cruelty for their stupid, retarded, demented, pointless, pathetic, ridiculous, risible, laughable and above all, David Brent/Michael Scott-like team building activities. 

Humourless

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I know. I haven't posted much at all lately - for the following reasons:

1. I'm working too hard
2. I don't even take full lunchbreaks anymore (see 1) 
3. I work with a bunch of humourless fucks who not only do absolutely nothing worthy of mention, but who also suck the life out me by draining every ounce of fun out of my blood and out of my working day.  

Everything I know is irrelevant in that place. I'm not even asking them to know about the Girls of the Playboy Mansion; but the level of their political correctness is beyond belief. I once dared say that the Dutch are very abrupt people and was met with gasps of horror. (Note that I was actually defending a Dutch person in the conversation). 

The workies are no fun but the work is no better. I have been insanely busy and now that the permanent post is coming up soon, I don't know if I want the job anymore. But if I applied, and actually got the job (against all odds), I would really start to act like myself again, whilst Iooking for another job, back in town, working with people who know about popular culture.
 

Shiny Shiny, Shiny Boots of PVC...

I'm still here folks - sorry about the prolonged absence. The problem is that I actually have so much work to do at The Institute that not only posting during paid, working hours is almost impossible, but I find it hard to retain any memories of what actually goes on in there. I walk out at 5:00 and ask myself: who am I? What am I doing here? What the fuck is going on?

Anyway, I had a particularly embarrassing encounter yesterday.

We have had builders now permanently destroying what used to be my office for several weeks. One of them commented the other day on the fact that I wear different shoes every day. I was surprised, as men don't often notice shoes. When he said he had a shoe fetish, I told him 'Oh well, just as well that you never saw the boots I wear in winter then'. Then I ran off. And then, it dawned on me: these builders have been here for months and I'm sure he's already seen my vast array of shiny boots. Oh well. I will try to avoid him for the next few weeks, but it's difficult because the only available fridge where I can put my lunch is in the old office.