Office Troll

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.

Space

I've been at The Institute for almost 3 months now and just as I was getting used to my surroundings, the entire department has moved to a different part of the building - an extension which resembles a beehive, packed with tiny little rooms where bearded academics squirrel themselves away, barricading their territory with books, jars of coffee, half-packed suitcases of clothes and other hidden treasures.

Amongst these tiny-prison cells is my new office - and yes, I am the sole occupier. It's predictably tiny and oddly-shaped. I have a desk and two sets of drawers and some shelves. I have cunningly chosen it over a bigger, square one, because there is absolutely no way on earth that they could legally expect two people to work in here. I should be relatively safe. I have MY OWN SPACE.

Right now, it's all bit bare. The Professor had tried to offload a horrid ethnic hanging tapestry thingy to go on my wall, but I managed to fend him off. I need to get a poster - perhaps a reproduction of some artwork - but I have to chose wisely: Munch's 'The Scream' would give away my state of mind too easily.   Anything with naked bodies would probably be considered inappropriate, except perhaps from the usual scene of an African woman with droopy tits out breastfeeding a starving baby. No thanks.

I was initially concerned about the place being too quiet, but The Professor quickly suggested that I just put some music on (he's a music nut). And so I did. I promptly bought myself a rock'n'roll speaker for my iPod (of which The Professor is very envious) and for the first couple of days my playlist was background music - jazz (provided by my dad), soundtracks, classical. By Day 4 I was feeling adventurous. By Day 5, out came Rollins and The Distillers. Give me another few days and I'll think nothing about working to the sound of Slayer.

Hey, this might not last forever, so I might as well make the most of it while I can...

This Clever Folk

One of the most disconcerting things about working at The Institute is the fact that, unlike most offices where I've worked, this place is literally heaving with really clever people. Not just the usual suspects that flaunt titles like 'Doctor' and 'Professor', but also a large majority of the administration and the various 'officer' type job titles are taken by people with at least a Master's degree in something. For once, I am at the bottom of the pile, with my measly Bachelor's degree, personal training diploma and a Pitman certificate for 'The Legal Secretary' that I took during my temping years. The latter proved to be an absolute curse as The Agency would then only send me well-paid but mind-numbingly tedious legal assignments because 'us legals' were in such great demand.

But I am digressing. In a nutshell, I'm surrounded by very serious, brainy people and whereas I normally manage to fool my employers in thinking that I know more than I do(a characteristic of an Italian education which is essentially based dropping a few names and facts and then bluffing), here everything I say sounds dumb and utterly frivolous. Why did I have to mention my pink Katie Price hair curling tongs (£9.99 in the Superdrug sales) to my line manager, for example? And was it really necessary to tell my boss about that time when Sir Bob Geldof (who was attending a conference my boss was invited to) called Russel Brand a c*nt? They probably all think that I'm a complete idiot - because their seriousness is giving me some sort of weird Tourette-style tic that makes me talk about shoes, clothes or celebrities every time I speak to them.

The only relatively normal people are the 'girls' in HR - a department that by nature tends to be rather girly (ever seen The Green Wing? It's very accurate). I am now so desperate for normal conversations that I often wonder into their office, which is a few tantalising steps from my desk, and snatch a merciful chat about hair, shoes, Perez Hilton and stuff like that.

And then, it's back to help my boss saving the world by having more meetings.

Matters of Image

The weeks are passing rather uneventfully at The Institute but I am still not allowing them to grind me down with their - ahem - "style" of corporate attire. I am clearly overdressed most of the time - except for a couple of days a week when I give in to black jeans (with heels as a concession to civilisation).

At this point, half of the Institute must be laughing at me, for attempting to maintain a delusion of glamour with worn-out carpets under my feet and the smell of cabbage from the canteen ("the restaurant") lingering in the air. Like one of those old women from ruined aristocracy who hang on to their pearls and furs as they receive their meals on wheels, I stubbornly insist in wearing stilettos in this wasteland of mud and rickety paving stones.

But to some, I am the magister elegantiarum: a colleague introduced me to a new starter the other day as 'our fashion guru' and added that since I have joined The Institute, I have added 'a splash of colour' to the department. Well, not as colourful as the ethnic hats and other assorted monstrousities that I have to see every day parading along the corridor. But I am slowly preparing them for the spring when (if I am still here) I will give them a shock with my red skirt/electric blue top/electric blue tights/red shoes combination. But first, I'll make sure that I have signed a contract for a permanent job.