I have been evicted from my old position as the neighbour, confidant and sometime nemesis of Gary(th) and have been forcibly relocated into the far corner of the battery farm we call the office. For those who saw that Hugh Fernley Whittingfool documentary on cheap chickens I am stood on one leg below the far water feeder by the CD hanging from the roof, and for any of you who know this place I am now in the corner opposite our change control monkeys……. In other words and you can’t sugar coat this (if you did the woman that doesn’t do anything would have eaten it before I could publish it) I have been relegated to remedial central.
I have no idea who I have offended, and the list is long, but clearly I have upset the apple cart and now the smiley HR bailiffs have moved me and my pitiful box of belongings from my nice comfy desk with the beautiful people, and Gary(th), and forcibly relocated me into a dark corner with the lost, the lame and the loony, none of who seem to be toilet trained. It’s comparable to moving from a nicely sized Surrey country house, nothing too ostentatious, no heli pad or indoor pool, into a Leeds tenement that you have to share with drug addicts, the homeless and that annoying twat who presents Deal or no Deal. And before you think it, yes I do know his name I just can’t bring myself to type it.
So in keeping with my wish to involve you in the trials and tribulations of my career such that it is, here are short biogs of my new cell mates. If you recognise yourself in any of these descriptions then the fiendishly good looking man sat next to you might well be the world famous RLD. Oh and if you think it is you and someone keeps leaving packs of Tena lady pants, the odour eating ones on your desk, maybe you should take a hint and strap one on, please!
So then, in no particular order we have;
Kenneth, never Ken or Kenny, is the kind of guy that would give you the shirt off his back, assuming you were swapping it for several thousand pounds and a better shirt. More fashion unconscious than fashion conscious he has been in this place long enough to know that advancement is unlikely and resistance is futile. Keeps an Evian bottle filled with Gordon’s Gin in his desk that he thinks no-one knows about and has a mysterious predilection for mouldy fruit which he stacks up in neat piles like some sort of sexual homage to the man from Del Monte. The cleaners threw some of the more furry bits away recently and Kenneth’s wrath was awesome to behold.
Kenneth does not smell of his or anyone else’s wee.
The Doyenne of the department, she puts the ‘pun’ into Rupunzal alright. Rupunzal keeps pigeons, in a loft and races them, for fun. I shoot at pigeons, cook and eat them, for fun. I am not expecting an invite to visit Chez Granola anytime soon, and that’s fine, but I do wish she’d see the funny side of me attaching pigeon wings to her cycle helmet (she looked a little like a very angry Asterisk) and not keep hiding pieces of glass in my lunch.
Rupunzal does not smell of her or anyone else’s wee.
I have mentioned Sara before; she steals tea money from me. Fanatical about the imaginary divide between my desk and hers the East German border police could have learned a thing or two about protecting the Berlin wall from this lass. If so much as the corner of a post it note accidentally crosses the great divide its like world war III but with tutting and eye rolling instead of real war stuff.
My dear old Gran used to say, anyone who has an ‘America’s next top model’ mouse mat at work needs to be treated with healthy respect and whilst I might not want her awards for gymkhana displayed on the wall next to my chair at least it shows she has interests outside of work other than taxidermy. Sara has a somewhat obvious crush on Kenneth and rumour has it she has a copy of his staff pass photo laminated and hidden under the sun visor of her car.
edit – no smell of wee – ever ever ever – Sara smells lovely, too nice sometimes in fact – it makes me all red faced and breathless!
It’s always been adapt or die in the big brother house that is this place, but if any of you had told me last year that in 12 months time I’d be pining for Gary(th) and his technology fetish then I would have slapped you round the face with a wet fish and called you a liar but here we are, no wet fish, no Gary(th) instead we have the heady aroma of gin and last weeks wee. Oh how the mighty have fallen.