Fate throws a few opportune curve balls if you’re paying attention and willing to catch and run.

I was day dreaming on the bus, missed my stop and got off opposite Growing Life, a curiosity shop dedicated to hydroponics, indoor gardening, grow tents and seller of all manner of strange nutrients and additives.

I was lured in by the wormeries, an obviously blokey bait in retrospect. Why would you want a normal garden composter when you can have a binful of 2,000 ravenous wrigglers chomping their way through your leftovers?

You can be all pious and self righteous for doing your bit for the environment, are harnessing the power of the worm and have a show stopper of a pub conversation all rolled into one act of do-gooder eco weirdness.

The wriggly ones process around 500g of vegetable matter a week leaving a fine compost to spread on your garden or throw over the neighbour’s cat. I was also educated in the ways of worm tea,  a super nutrient made from mixing worm castings which are mixed with water and then oxygenated.

Of course, the real stars of the show are the worms whose names sound like the cast from an X-Men film: European Nightcrawler, Red Wriggler and the White Worm

 

Facilities Management which would in a previous life been aligned with the Gestapo and named something along the lines of the Facility of Co-operative Management and Correctional Rendition has been flexing its muscles in the workplace again.

We received a global email warning from facilities forbidding staff not to take tea bags intended for meetings from the kitchen. I duly ignored this as a mardy bastard and went down on an early pilfering raid to be met with a stern message on successive doors warning we would be shot at dawn if any further chai went missing.

A ‘polite notice’, my arse. It’s only a matter of time before the spotlights and dogs appear.

 

A work email was circulated today forbidding anyone from helping themselves to tea bags on the first floor which are ‘strictly for business meetings and external visitors.’

Fuck that. If our paymasters are making us redundant this year then the least we can expect is a cup of chai. I maturely replied to the email with: ‘Seig heil. Orders received mein Fuhrer. Supply line has been cut.”

 

Friday afternoon was a mournful affair. The usual mass evacuation left the office looking like some end-of-the-world film set as people mumbled about afternoon meetings and cried off with phantom headaches.

The few of us that remained clock watched and made needless cups of tea to make the time pass faster. It didn’t

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