It looks like we’ve seen the last of the office skiver. The boss curtly informed us he probably wouldn’t be returning from his latest six week sojourn although his demise remains shrouded in secrecy.

He certainly was a dosser par excellence but insisted on keeping up the illusion – or is that delusion? – that all would turn to dust without his magic touch.

Suffice to say we have manfully struggled on without our little Napoleon.

 

I admit to the slow cannibalisation of the office skiver’s belongings since he left us a few weeks ago for another of his extended recreational breaks.

It started innocently enough munching a bag of half eaten walnuts on his desk to pilfering some coppers, paperclips and post-it notes.

Boxes of papers, files, stationary and general flotsam and jetsam are now accumulating on it as is written in the Law of the Holidaying Desk.

So it has been, so it shall always be. Amen and may the Lord have mercy on his soul.

 

The skiver enters his third week away from the office. We’ve since found out that he is subject to an internal investigation after the mother of all ding-dongs with the boss ended with him calling her a liar.

I’m sure it will add a few more inches of permafrost to their already chilly relationship.

I’ve no doubt he’ll spin out his current sojourn a while longer then limp back to work for a while before the whole sorry cycle starts again.

Well, he’s getting paid through all this malarkey so I guess he’s laughing at the end of the day. I’m waiting for him to ring up saying he can’t come in because of stress.

God give us strength (and him a redundancy letter).

 

Has the office skiver finally reached his nadir?

Tempers flared in the boss’s office and he stomped off red-faced and full of self-righteous indignation.

We’ve since been told he’s working from home – don’t make me laugh – and the boss remains tight lipped about the whole affair.

There’s no love lost between the pair who regularly clash like a pair of  bellowing walruses fighting for towel space.

We’ve since worked out that he has taken a day off every week for the past nine months. Unbelievable. May the maggots of sloth dine on his indolent flesh.

 

Office loafer had last week off but the strain of coming back to work for two days has taken its toll and he was off today for ‘personal reasons.’

It’s a sacrosanct excuse. The joker in the pack of skiving because it could cover any number of sensitive reasons that a boss is ill advised to challenge.

Of course, he has no genuine reason beyond being an idle 30 something layout who’s been genetically mapped with a sloth.

Oh well, he’ll be back in tomorrow wiping his brow and telling us how busy he is. Tell it to the hand.

 

The loafer has been off work this week on legitimate annual leave. What’s the world coming to when a seasoned soak has to fall back on normal holiday time?

He rang up asking the latest on the shakeup in the NHS which will mean the demise of primary care trusts and major job losses at our work place.

I couldn’t enlighten him beyond the doublespeak of high management which sounded like the band of the Titantic playing ever more frantically as the ship goes down.

Words, such as new beginnings, opportunity, a brave new world and standard bearers were all trotted out by our glorious leader who has all the charisma of a reheated steak. Yes, a very inspiring talk to the troops as we march into the abyss of mass unemployment and the coalition government’s vision of a brighter Britain.

I did want to tell the loafer that he would be the first to walk the plank once he’d been prised squealing off his work station but felt he was genuinely concerned.

This sympathy lasted a mere heartbeat when he earnestly added that he would ‘leave tomorrow if they gave me ten thousand  pounds.

We could also get him to leave tomorrow by throwing him off the roof.

 

It’s late afternoon and the loafer leans back and raises his eyes as I pass his desk.

“I’ve got so much to do. I feel like I’ll never catch up,” he says.

No, I think. Not with the amount of time you take off.

I idly wonder what it would be like to sharply chop him over the head with an arch folder or force feed him a mouthful of paperclips to stifle his whinnying bullshit. Ah, the pleasure of day dreams.

 

I went into the store cupboard yesterday and who rose out of the gloom like the Prince of Darkness himself but the office’s resident loafer. He said he was ‘resting’ on the floor for a few minutes because he had back ache.

Back ache from what? Watching too many World Cup matches on the trot like some beached sea cucumber.

I’d heard of his work siestas but couldn’t believe it until I found his new subterranean nest complete with a rolled up t-shirt for a pillow.

He followed it up the next morning by ringing in saying he’d hurt his leg jogging the night before and couldn’t come in. Hurt his leg? I’d tie a pork chop to his ankle and throw him in the crocodile pond at London Zoo. I bet it would be working fine then.

Ah well, his antics do raise a smile for this office rat. At least we don’t have to worry about covering his workload as he does sweet FA apart from thinking up ever elaborate ways of dodging work.

© 2011 gruntfarter.co.uk Suffusion theme by Sayontan Sinha