People who get promotions fall into two categories: those remain approachable and unaffected and those who think you should start saluting them.

I came across the latter this morning marching down the corridor like goose-stepping hadn’t gone out of fashion. The weight of office bearing heavy on them.

My smile and hello were ignored as the great one pondered the imponderable. Shall I have one marshmallow with my executive cup of tea or two?

Better still, I’ll make that serf I just passed in the corridor make it for me. Oi. chai wallah! Come service me.


An unholy cabal gathers in London as I speak comprising two disgruntled former employees who asked if I wanted to join them for a drink and bitchathon session about my boss.

It felt like being invited to a divorcee club. I declined because it would have just been an opportunity to gain some laughable blog material. Oh, to be a fly on a pint pot at that get together.

I must say the boss seems to be reaching new heights of dour irritability these days. What a joyless gulag our office is to work. I had to humour myself by circulating a picture of a mouse found mummified in a loaf of bread.

Puerile humour is our last best hope before the darkness sweeps in


Is it some unseen law of employment that the higher you climb the monkey ladder, the more removed and distainful you become of your once human colleagues?

Our newly promoted boss has taken on the guise of the Eye of Sauron. We scurry beneath her baleful gaze hoping she will not stumble across the missing paperclip or unattended tea cup.


The Reichstag has taken the opportunity of our recent move to stamp its jackboot on office life.

A prim lipped email has been circulated asking people to not speak too loudly on the phone, refrain from loud ringtones on mobile phones and be careful not to stain furniture.

Someone had the audacity to spill their tea on one of the easy chairs downstairs sparking an investigation by the office Nazi.

This is discounting the stains left by the sycophantic dribbling of our glorious leader as she runs around ko-towing to anything senior with a pulse.


Moved office today.  Our new pleasure zone has all the atmosphere and camaraderie of a morgue.

Have a window seat overlooking a scene of unremitting urban gloom.

A flyover buzzes over battleship grey.

If ever a view could inspire one to contemplate suicide then this is.

The fragrant eau du cologne of a London summer reaches my concrete eyrie. A heady cocktail of warm tarmac, dog shit and traffic fumes wafting up from London’s sweating carcass. Summer in the city. You can’t beat it.

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