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July 26, 2005

You Make Your Own Fun In The Office

Follow-up to Workplace Failure from Hollyzone

  • For most of the last two days a phone has gone off at irregular intervals playing 'We Wish You A Merry Christmas'. I asked why. Apparently it's the emergency phone. I am never asking anything ever again.

  • They made me clear out the answerphone. Amongst the people calling on mobiles from the M6 with their screeching spawn in the car, the Scousers with accents so thick that even I (a half Scouser) couldn't understand them and those who didn't quite understand the concept of the answerphone (leave a message, if I want to hear someone breathing I am sit in a room on my own), amongst all this, all this chaos, all this incomprehensible static was one thing which cheered me. Some fool had accidentally rung and left a huge message, a recording of their night out. I had to give up after 10 minutes as it transpired I was not going to hear a crime take place and be able to get lots of debt relieving (oh god a new computer and a trip to Greece to pay for) reward. But I still loved what was, pretty much, the first line.
I fucking hate living next door to a policeman, you can't do anything fun.
  • And who the hell keeps stealing the canteen's only copy of the Gruaniad? Why must I live in a world were the occasional ray of light offered by the Times is dwarfed by the enormity of having to suffer, shudder, the tabloids?

To whom it may concern, that new computer and Athens had better be worth this pain.

July 25, 2005

Workplace Failure

Memo to self: hide this entry once in the Real WorldTM or else!

I am completely and utterly, totally and irredemably unsuited to the world of work! Well, office work anyway.

I arrived at my parents' house on Saturday and with ruthless efficiency mum found me a job to bide my time in an attempt to prevent me imprinting myself too deeply on the sofa. Just one thing, it was an office job. Bearing in mind that most jobs I've had involve some degree of dashing around like a mad thing, I was somewhat dubious. I've worked in an office before, two years ago. Same office infact. But surely I am now more mature and more developed as a person, ready to face, with fortiutude and other big words, the Real WorldTM like an adult.

Am I hell.

I can't do it. One day, that's all I've done, one fecking day and I will happily sit through the Greatest Hits of Atomic Kitten being performed live in my living room rather than go back. I can't handle it. Every tiny detail of the experience is so completely soul destroying that I just want to purge the experience from my addled brain. I mean seriously people, how can a five minute break to eat a breadstick constitiute the highlight of any day? My chair squeaked and creaked whenever I moved, and god help my posture, bad enough at the best of times but something about sitting still causes my shoulders to drop and that annoying pain the back of my neck returns.

And it was cold and quiet. Like the Arctic without the impressive scenery, seals and iceholes. Hell, if a bunch of Canadians had arrived and started culling the other people using clubs I'd probably have run on over to get it over with more quickly. Complain about that Greenpeace.

So far, so air-con hell. No mobiles. No chatting because otherwise it is impossible to complete, with any accuracy, the repetitive tasks of the day. No break in the tedium. An eight hour shift dragged whereas had I been in my normal holiday job (where there are no more shifts till September) eight hours would have flown by… in fact in that job I work ten plus hour shifts and they don't drag as badly. I could barely keep awake.

And this is after one day.

I need either a change of outlook, some very powerful drugs or to get a different job, not just now but for the rest of my useful life. These jobs are probably the sort of things where your boss monitors blogs and where breaking the subtle office ettiquette can instantly destroy all chances of sanity and/or acceptance. What's the point of doing something when you can't care about it? Why bother sans passion?

Argh, another extended period of time to myself to think. Arse. Post insults below.

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