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.

 

Sometimes it feels as if there is only the width of a paperclip between sanity and exterminating particularly irksome work colleagues. The methods of dispatch are multifold. The stationary cupboard an arsenal of death to the willing hand.

The telephone line garrote, bludgeoned with a cellotape dispenser, death by a thousand staples, being force fed the juice of markerboard pens, gutted by the paper scissors or simply pushed out of the window. Idle and murderous thoughts beneath the yard arm.

 

My boss insisted I read an email circular about voluntary redundancy at work.

“Why?” I asked knowing that I didn’t quality for the scheme.

“I have to make sure you’ve all read it,” she replied like some pre-programmed cyborg.

“Well, I don’t qualify and you know I don’t qualify so what’s the point?”

“The point is you need to know about it.”

“Why do I need to know about it? I don’t qualify.”

“I said are you going to read it?” (Her voice has crept up a couple quavers on the scale by now).

“No.”

Another productive day on the office.

 

The thought of escape weighs heavily on my mind as the winter lock-down at work commences.

Co-workers are starting to lunch at their desks and the stench of warm soup, homemade stew and fish hangs like a pall over our open plan office.

The talk is of corrective breast surgery and menstruation among the womenfolk. I keep my head down and don’t make eye contact.

 

The boss is starting to look more and more like Star Wars nasty Darth Sidious.

The combination of an increased workload, impeding unemployment and arse licking beyond the call of duty has given her a scowling visage of the evil one.

Laughs are thin on the ground, loitering with intent to gossip by the water cooler a punishable offence and the march of the office jackboot is on the rise.

 

The Government  certainly likes kicking you while your down. We’d all accepted the fact that NHS primary care trusts would cease to exist in 2013 and many of us would be out of a job.

This morning we found out the powers-that-be have decided to move the whole process forward by a year to save money. We now expect the first redundancies at the end of October.

The assembled staff looked as ashen face as if Mount Etna had given them a dusting. Our glorious leader once again wheeled out his platitudes about ‘focusing on your work’ while the building comes crashing down round our ears.

“I can’t really offer much in the way of reassurance, can I? ” he piped.

No you can’t, I thought. So just spare us the sound of your voice which becomes more like the whine of the mosquito every time I hear it

 

The boss made a big song and dance about appropriate office cover before flouncing off on holiday. It’s a tad rich considering she is never in the office because of various meetings.

Lo and behold who is the only person in today while she is staggering around some eastern European fleshpot drunk on cheap lager and pork scratchings?

I can only hope a rhino escapes from the Zoo of Bratislavia and there is a terrible accident which leaves her in plaster for a few weeks. It will allow the rest of us to regain our sanity and pull back from bricking her up behind a wall.

 

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

 

The collective pallor of our workplace has taken on battleship grey as the first round of job cuts trundles over the horizon with its cleavers banging around in the back of the truck.

There is a listless air about the place like a ship caught in dead calm.

Biscuit consumption has risen, tempers are paper thin and there is some irritating person whose emigrating to Oz next week and delights in telling us how sorry she feels for us all.

Yup and I’ll be feeling sorry for her when that funnel-web spider bites her on the arse unless the box jellyfish or salt water crocodile gets in there first.

 

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.

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