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.

 

You can show three reactions on walking into a toilet and being assailed by an incumbent’s curtain of stink. All three must be delivered by banging the door shut when exiting for dramatic effect :

1). ‘What a f*****g stink.’ (Pause, then bang the door shut).

2). ‘For God’s sake!’ (Give a little strangled choke for effect before banging the door shut hard).

3) You dirty b******.’ (Really put your weight into a full door slam on this one).

It is, of course, pointlessly childish but provides some light entertainment during the day. And to think the Japanese invented a tablet some years ago to stop your excrement smelling? A fascinating and industrious race from who we could learn much. David Cameron take note.

 

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.”

 

I’ve always got on well with the GP I work with his tales of woe about the amount of money his wife will blow in the gold shops of Dubai, his teenage daughter’s volcanic moods and the pram throwing antics of some of his colleagues.

However, it’s always nice to get someone else’s perspective.

‘You get on with him?’ someone asked somewhat surprised.

‘Yes, he’s nice guy.’

‘Nice? More like an iron fist in a velvet glove.’

Sounds painful.

 

“Please be mindful of your fellow human beings …”

The office kitchen seems to be a magnet for the dispossessed to voice their cant. Gandhi appears to have got a job in admin and is appealing to our better nature to not soil the kitchen with dirty tupperware and unrinsed tea mugs.

I will certainly be mindful to leave a rock hard half eaten plate of spaghetti in the kitchen next time I pass as a royal fuck you to the beatific one who insists on putting these posters up. I do wash my stuff up but feel obliged not to in future in the face of this fluffy booted fascism.

 

The NHS is being rapidly drained of employees now Count Lansley has got his fiscal fangs into the jugular of the world’s fourth largest employer. Our workplace is no exception and the office seems to get emptier with each passing week. The day starts and ends with tea while the rest of it floats by in contemplation of our fate. Even the clocks have stopped working.

 

They say you can judge a person’s character by their shoes but their tea cup? I wonder what snarling beast lies beneath a civilsed exterior in our office? The cup has been giving out the vibes for several weeks and its owner’s identity remains a mystery. My money’s on the old dear who does the photocopying.

 

Does anyone rue being off work when they’re ill? Apparently so if you work in our office.

“I was really upset I couldn’t come in last week,” the resident toady gushed at the dawn of another week. ”You know how I hate taking time off. I really like coming in.”

The geiger-counter went off the bullshit scale with that one and marked the resumption of her daily climb up the boss’s arse like some tape worm returning to the source.

It got me thinking. Is this the same person who disappeared on the afternoon of her first day back then came in the next day with the declaration that she could only work until 4pm for the next few weeks because she was still feeling rundown?

The same person who couldn’t get in because of the snow, despite living in the middle of London? Ah yes, the same one who rang up this morning and said she was tired and wanted to work from home.

 

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

 

The prospect of coming into work these days is akin to clocking in at a Siberian gulag. Our boss, the seemingly benign Sith apprentice, permanently teeters on the edge of boiling point while we scuttle around trying to avoid contact with her.

She increasingly communicates through angry glares and terse emails while clumping around like Captain Ahab on the main deck (where is the whale when you need it?).

Someone passed her the other day with a ‘cheer up, it might never happen’ which is guaranteed to piss anyone off.  She bit deep into the lemon on that one before forcing out a weak smile as it was a superior. I tried hard not to laugh.

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