The first day back in the office following a bank holiday is akin to the train journey to a forced Russian Labour Camp. Most of the time work is like standing on the platform waiting for the train. Obviously actually being at work isn’t as bad as the Gulag, that would be ridiculous. Unless it’s the first day in after Christmas. The only reason Piqued began was because I needed to take my mind off the comforting thought of a hot bath with a bottle of scotch and 50 paracetamol.
Yesterday was awful, I floundered and farted about, I was tired, bored and choc full o’ disillusion. As I festered in my chair weakly making calls to clients and reading every single online newspaper article a dozen times, each hour that was willed on to 5pm was another towards my fucking grave. This isn’t right I concluded, this is very wrong, I decided. Fucking Protestant work ethic. I don’t even believe in god for Pete’s sake.
Thank Pete, then, for the pub and pals. My entire focus of the day revolved around a seat round a table with a round of booze. When I arrived at just after 6.30 at the small but perfectly formed hostelry behind Leicester Square, Den and Harry were already ensconced. I slid into the conversation and we were off, I could feel my internal organs unwind as we chatted away. A part of the conversation was about work, not so much in terms of what we do but how it operates with regard to the affect on our lives. Both my companions don’t have a fixed timetable of work as I do; subsequently their salaries aren’t fixed either, but from my seat it seems that despite the latter -which isn’t a major issue if one is organised- not having a fixed consistent work structure isn’t just better for the individual’s lifestyle, the time to work ratio is significantly improved too. The amount of hours I, my colleagues, the work force of the UK waste because of having to be in situation between certain hours is relatively impossible to quantify. But everyone whose ever worked in a fucking office will know that one works in fits and starts, worse still, one spends a good deal of time in the office doing absolutely nothing related to the job they’re employed to do. Is it any wonder we’ve no industry anymore?
Den wandered off to catch his train leaving Harry and I to our own alcohol devices when all of a sudden the bar was filled with 20 something’s all being 20 something. Some of them looked familiar, then to my horror I realised I was surrounded by most of the cast and crew of Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps Please, that wasn’t metaphorical by the way, it was actually them.
Those of you that have been reading Watch With Mothers (link to the right of these wordz) will know that this TV show has become somewhat of an issue. Nothing happened by the way, I didn’t flip out and start pissing on them or anything, I just thought it was worth a mention…
So back off. Okay.
Well that’s the highlight of my day over, better do some work, after a cigarette, another coffee and a dump. Then lunch.