Spring is in the air, and in my step

...for the wisteria is in full, fragrant flower at Oakwood Hall, and the office fuckwittery may finally be over.

I have finally agreed terms.  Office hours will now be 30 per week, as originally advertised in the job spec.  An agreed 9.00am start is a wonderful thing - as is a 3.30pm finish, especially when your lovely dad comes to pick you up and take you shopping. A new (and hopefully correct) contract is being prepared.   I'm now in full charge of the project for five weeks, until Gandalf's replacement arrives, and I'm giving it all my full attention.  As the person who is supposed to be my supervisor has not a Scooby about the project, or what it entails, I can pretty much just...well, do what I like.  Life is sweet.

This evening, Middle Kid came over on his way home from work, and we seeded the idea of a Diamond Wedding anniversary event of some sort with Lord and Lady Oakwood.  It's going to be weird.  The last ''big'' anniversaries were mostly planned and executed by me and Sissy; Middle Kid, who is considerably richer than either of us are or were, contributed funds.  It worked.  This time, with Sissy no longer with us, it's all a bit ''empty chair''-ish, and Middle Kid and I will be doing it between us, assisted by Mr A and Middle Kid's Bird.   Still, Lord and Lady Oakwood would like a bit of a ''do'' - low-key, intimate and only with (and I quote) ''people we like and want to invite''.  This is good. This is so good, that Middle Kid and I did the ''sideways glance of relief'' to each other.  It means no ancient bridesmaids, no ''better-invite-them-in-case-they-get-offendeds'', no ''just-in-cases''.  Just the (very) few rellies who everyone likes, a couple of old and dear friends, plus immediate family.  We're thinking summer picnic vibe.  Middle Kid has a swimming pool in his garden.  It will be different, but it will be good, and fun and, although there WILL be an empty chair, it will have spirit. 

I'm going to apply to have Betty Windsor send one of her special cards from the Palace for the event.  Cuzzy-in-the-West has already helped with planning that.  Shamefacedly, I had no idea of the exact date of Lord and Lady Oakwood's nuptials; I knew the year, and the place, but other than that, just a vague idea of it all having happened over August Bank Holiday in the year before I was born.  Luckily Aunt-in-the West came up trumps, having been prompted by Cuzzy. It's all good. 

And then, in other good, there's wisteria.  It's all VERY good.

...''and may the odds be forever in your favour!..

Another day, another meaningless three hour course.  Scheduling a course on the day after the Easter break strikes me as pretty stupid, especially as, when I got there, it wasn't even relevant to my job.  Let's just call it ''Box-ticking 101'' and be done with it.

I've come to the conclusion that the organisation I currently work for exists, despite it's exhortations otherwise, purely to keep lots of analysts and trainers in work, endlessly churning out statistics and reports and running courses on how to keep the organisation compliant.   All of the computer systems we use are top-heavy, ridiculously convoluted and complicated - and were obviously designed by some malevolent government goblin who's never actually done any of the jobs that the system is designed to work with. I use the word ''designed'' in its loosest possible sense, of course.

Today, it took three hours to explain how the others in the room must use this system in order to comply with a particular government diktat. The diktat itself has quite a simple premise.  Get them in.  Get the job done within a specific timescale. Close the record when you've finished doing the job. Unfortunately, there are lots of built-in differences, depending on the most bizarre of circumstances, every one of which these poor saps are supposed to know and remember.  When the trainer went out for her break, one of the other trainees looked up and said what we were all thinking; ''How come those of us that do the job at the ground level and get paid the least, are the ones who have to be personally responsibly for compliance''? Seriously, that's how it works.  If they make a mistake, there are huge financial penalties levied against the organisation, PER MISTAKE - and there are a lot of opportunities to make mistakes, because the system is so convoluted.  Couple that with regular forensic auditing and...well.  You get the gist.

Still.  I went, I listened, I took the test and (sort of ) passed - we all did, but only because, when the trainer went out of the room, we all cheated and talked together about what we had written. I'm pretty sure none of us took much away from the session except for a looming sense of doom.  It's not nice for people to feel as though at any moment, they might be hauled across a bed of coals for a tiny infraction.  I'm wondering if the area outside the front entrance isn't, in fact, to be transformed in to a new treatment area but, instead, will be the modern equivalent of the Tyburn tree, or a Particicution arena. I've seen the Hunger Games.  I didn't realise I should have been taking survival strategy notes...

Gandalf leaves on Thursday.  I am still no closer to finding out what happens to me and my job when she goes, and during the five weeks before her replacement returns to work.  Still, she has promised me a Handover file, which she's been writing for the last two weeks.  Every day, all day. I'm of the mind that perhaps she'd have been better employed actually teaching me to do the shit I'm going to have to do, but still.  That's how they do things in the North Wing.

There's a five minute break, and it's all you take, for a cup of cold coffee and a piece of cake...

I heard on the news this morning that people in the UK work the longest hours in the whole of Europe, but are less productive than workers in every other European country.  I don't know if that's true, but what I do know is this; if certain people attended fewer meetings and the rest of us were afforded less draconian work regimes and proper rest breaks in conducive surroundings, we'd all certainly be more productive.

In my current workplace (no names, no pack-drill - if you know me, you'll know where I work) our time is micro-managed and overseen to the nano-second.  It's not pleasant being permanently scrutinised - nor to feel as though you're not trusted.  It's not pleasant to have someone ring the trainer  45 minutes into a one-to-one, one hour planned training session just to ask if you, as the trainee, are ''coping okay'' - when what they're really asking is ''Has the sneaky cow actually turned up for the training session, or is she out the back having a pint and a crafty fag''?  This happened to me today.  I actually heard the words come out of the Butterball's mouth - the very nice trainer actually had his phone on speaker.  That we were talking about whisky at the time was neither here nor there.  His raised eyebrows and sideways glance at Butterball's question spoke volumes.  He was pissed off, and he could tell I was too - so when the phone went down, he looked at me and said, ''So.  Where were we?  Oh, yes''' (frantic scrolling through Amazon on tablet), ''This is the whisky I think you should try.  It's pretty peaty...''.  Then we talked about gin for a while.  We hadn't needed the hour.  He was only handing me over a data-access card and telling me that if I misuse it, I'll go to prison.  I got the gist. He realised I have a brain.

Most of yesterday, I was alone in the section while everyone else went to a management meeting, followed by a team leaders meeting, followed by a planning meeting.  All fucking day. Meetings about meetings about meetings.  And strategy about meeting the targets for meetings.  And planning for progress in the meetings about meetings.

I ate lunch after my training session.  I ate my lunch sitting on the windowsill in the corridor. It looks out over an internal building well.  It's not ideal, but it's more conducive than sitting in the allotted ''break out'' area in the office; three chairs and a table, stuffed into an airless, windowless alcove in the corner.  It serves an office of around 75, give or take.  I work for a national organisation which promotes health and well-being.  We have a scant 30 minutes for lunch, in a part of the building which is a good 7 minute walk away from the canteen - a canteen shared by workers and the public.    No chance of going down for a hot lunch. It's also a good 7 minutes to the nearest coffee/shopping concession. 14 minutes (plus queuing time) there and back.  There's a grassed area outside, but that takes 5 minutes to get to, even when walking briskly. Ten minutes travel time, out of a thirty minute break.  No wonder everyone looks dyspeptic after lunch.  The large and popular tiered seating area outside the front of the building has recently been cordoned off and is being dug up to provide space for a new treatment unit.  I can't believe that when our wing was built, no-one considered that the several thousand staff working in the offices and other departments might need somewhere close by and easily accessible to escape to.

I still haven't signed my contract.   There is further fuckwittery afoot.

Tout est perdu...

Watching a terrible fire gradually destroy Notre Dame in Paris.  All that beauty on the Ile de la Cité.  The wooden spire and roof have both fallen, the beautiful windows are gone; there's a fight to try and rescue some of the artwork and artifacts from the back of the cathedral, but no-one is hopeful.  The very structure of the iconic northern tower is in question and, if that goes, the southern tower and the belfry will not survive.   An interviewee said it was doubtful that any part of the cathedral will still be standing by morning. 850 years of history and liturgy lost. The true heart of Paris, gone...

''Warp speed, Mr Sulu''...

...''and take us out''.  My thoughts this morning as I finally got allocated a proper chair.  It's ridiculously big, has the largest, fully-adjustable arm-rests I've ever seen, and makes me feel like I'm in charge of the bridge on the USS Enterprise.  My desk is huge, too - but the big-cheese corporate-ness of it is slightly lessened by the pink balloons left pinned to the wall by the last incumbent.

Yes, things have moved on apace since yesterday.  I have Post-its.  I have pens.  I have a file with inserts and pockets and I have my own stapler and staple remover.  I have two screens to flip stuff about on, like Tom Cruise in ''Minority Report''.   I have my own fan.  I have resolution.

The meeting was productive.  There will be further discussions about hours, and the lessening thereof, with a final decision made next week.   My suggestions for how we could resolve the service issues on a reduced hours basis were met with a decent amount of positivity.   There have been discussions about expectations and the non-fulfillment thereof (on their part).  There have been apologies.  There have been assurances about contracts and job content.  There have been promises of no more fuckwittery, and copious thanks for my honesty and co-operation.  I think I am happy - and I'm pretty sure they are too. 

It's all good. As was the charity fashion show I went to this evening, where £850 was raised to purchase Makaton equipment for a local special school. There was prosecco.  I'd have preferred gin, but you don't often get that at events for ''ladies''.  I made do. Twice.

Oakwood Hall is quiet, and I'm settling down for the night now.  Lord and Lady Oakwood, I'm assuming, made landfall safely and will now be firmly ensconced in the Flatlands.  I'm looking forward to being able to make as much noise as I like at 6am tomorrow, instead of creeping around trying not to wake them up - and tomorrow is Friday.  Mr A will be here for the weekend, the Sunday allotment meeting has been cancelled, so we are set fair and free until Monday.

Blessed be.

Plans are afoot...

Lord and Lady Oakwood are en route to the (other) country house. I hesitate to say for ''the weekend'', lest Lady Violet sneer at me for being a parvenu, but they will reside there from Thursday to Monday, leaving me rattling around at Oakwood Hall for the duration.  I'm trying not to be green with envy at the thought of them stuffing their faces with chocolates and fritjes, or swooping up to Sluis on Sunday for poffertjes at Kaai 39.  Still, Mr A will be coming to call on Friday, and we have cunning plans of our own.

I've noticed, in my trips to town, three micropubs - all in the same vicinity, and all reachable by public transport from Oakwood Hall.  This fills Mr A with a mixture of delight, coupled with abject fear - delight at the thought that he can have as many scoops of delicious ale as he likes without risking his driving licence and fear at the thought of having to sit on a bus with the great unwashed.  Still, like my job, it's a means to an end, and will fill Friday evening quite nicely.  Saturday, we'll venture further afield, perhaps even into Hamwic proper. There's a decent art gallery and ''big shops'', and I'm sure we can fill our time there until the evening.  I've not ''done town'' of an evening since I last lived here in 1988.  We could be in for a proper shock.

Before then, though, there's a MEETING and fuckwittery to address, and a fashion show to attend.  Life's not too bad, even though I'm absolutely knackered; brain-knackered mostly, not physically knackered. I'd forgotten how bloody tiring it is to cram your cranium with book-learnin'.  Means to an end, though, means to an end.  This is my mantra du jour, and I constantly repeat it under my breath.  It keeps the fuckwittery at bay...

A tiny glimmer...

Things are moving on apace.  Today, I finally got to do some substantial parts of the job I was actually employed to do, I have a proper, fixed desk (and my own chair!) within my new team's space, and I have found and appropriated my own stapler and staple remover.  The sleight of hand was remarkable.  Wondering if I could look towards a future job as a pickpocket...

Oh, and THE meeting is set for Thursday.  Watch this space.

In other news, a new bank member of staff arrived today.  He'd applied for, and got, a post which was advertised as being a clerk with duties shared 25% with us and 75% with a similar office at another site.  He had good reasons for doing so.  He lives very close to the other site, and it's easier for him to get there, for what would be the majority of his working week.   He was with us today for some training, and fully expecting to be deployed in the role he'd applied for.  ''Oh, no'', says Butterball.  ''You'll be  here with us full-time.  We're not sharing any posts with the (***) any more.  All the admin is being dealt with from this office now''.  Why does this put me in mind of me and, more to the point, how are they getting away with it???

Fuckwittery...

There is still fuckwittery afoot.  The ''break-out'' area meeting was postponed until later in the week, but I'm maintaining an air of blasé detachment about the whole thing, which may or may not be driving people mad.  Truth to tell, I've never been so ''nice'' about fuckwittery before - and I'm quite scaring myself.  My normal default position is full-on redhead with added berserker, as those of you who know me will probably agree. 

In a nutshell, what is happening is that, in January, I applied for a job with a fixed term, six-month contract.  I had my reasons for this - very specific reasons.   When I got to the first interview I asked, again very specifically, why the job was vacant and I was told that the job wasn't vacant as such, that it was actually a completely new post, as an assistant to the person running a very interesting project, and the funding was in place for 6 months. At the end of 6 months, the project would either have worked or not, and we could then re-negotiate a longer stay, or I could leave.   It was also specified that, as the assistant to the project, the project would be my main focus, but I might be called on to help with other things in the department from time to time.   That seemed reasonable, as did the discussion about flexible hours - the job was advertised as 30 hours per week, but up to a maximum of 37.5 hours per week, depending on workload - even perhaps with an occasional Saturday. I was told that the offices were operational between 8.00am and 8.00pm, but I'd be working as required.  My hours and starting time would vary according to need.  That seemed fine.   I was rather taken by Gandalf of Excel and was pretty sure that we'd work well together - plus, the project was interesting.

I had a second interview.    I presented my credentials and a letter praising me to the skies for my help in running a similar special project with another organisation - at which, the interviewers were both shiny-eyed with glee.  Again, it was stated that this was a six-month project...blah, blah, blah, assistant to Gandalf of Excel,,,blah, blah, blah...bit of help when needed with other things in the department...blah, blah, blah. 

I was offered the job, packed my suitcase and moved back to Oakwood Towers.

Long story short; my contract, when it arrived, was for a permanent job, 37.5 hours a week, with fixed hours starting at 8.00am. I spoke to Personnel.  Told them the contract was inaccurate - mentioned the 30-hour bit, focus of job, fixed term contract stuff.  Oh, no, says Personnel bunny - it's always been 37.5 hours, but I'll arrange for a new contract to be drawn up, showing fixed term conditions.   Doubting myself by this point, I went back to the advert and found that, mysteriously, the conditions had been changed - despite me having a copy to hand of the original job description.  I've not yet signed the changed document. 

In the last two weeks, the focus of the job has been not the project, but work in the department, with bits of the project fitted in around what is basically call-centre work. I don't play nicely with others.  I worked for two days in a call centre once, and I swore I'd never do it again.  If I'd wanted a call-centre job, I'd have applied for one in the first instance.  I underwent the training in my first week, I did little bits of the project and LOTS of the other work. That was sort of okay - everyone needs to learn systems in a new job, and I will need the knowledge to do parts of the project later on.  THEN it transpired, during a conversation with Gandalf, that she is actually only on secondment, covering a maternity leave post.  She will be leaving on 29th April to go back to her substantive post, and I will be working with a completely new person, who I've not even met.   This was NEVER mentioned, at either of the interviews. Had it been, I would not have taken the position.  As I pointed out to Gandalf in our corridor conversation,  I turned down another job offer to do this job, on the basis we'd discussed at TWO interviews - working with her, on a specific project, fixed term, and with bits of other work round the edges - not vice-versa.

This, in a nutshell, is the fucktangular mess of fuckwittery which now needs sorting out.   To be fair, Gandalf was horrified that ''my expectations of the job have not been fulfilled'', and has taken steps to try to mitigate the disaster.  There will be meetings, there will be discussions and hopefully, an accord will be reached.  In the meantime, I am drifting about, neither one thing nor the other.

But I remain sanguine, which is as much a surprise to me as it is to most of the rest of the sharers of my world. I must be softening in my dotage...

A Brompton, please. Ice and a slice...

I learnt today about the so-called ''Brompton Cocktail''.  It's powerful, it's illegal and its deployment is probably obsolete now (thanks for that, Doctor Shipman) but I would willingly have supped one down this afternoon.  There is fuckwittery afoot,  fuckwittery of a fucktangular nature, and which I can't go into detail about until after someone has had a chance to try and sort it out.  That may be tomorrow, it may be on Monday, but let's just say...there was A MEETING about it in the ''break-out'' area...I am not in trouble, nor am I at fault - no worries on that score.

In other news, my delightful deskmate has been at it again.  She arrived at 9.30.  She played with her phone, she wandered about with her bucket of coffee and a cookie. She checked her emails.  She flipped through the pages of the mysterious ''blue file'', which sits on her desk and, like her fan, may not be moved, touched or even glanced at - unless you're her. 

Then she chowed down on:

A box of mini wheats.  A whole one.  Probably for the fibre.
A pint of milk.
A mug of tea.
These were accompanied by the first can of a four-pack of Fanta.
Two donuts.
A bar of chocolate.
Two tomato cup-a-soups
A packet of chocolate Hobnobs.
Another can of Fanta and a cup of coffee.
A foot-long sub from Subway.  The one with the meatballs and cheese and gallons of tomato sauce. The meatball Marinara?
A big bag of  Haribo Tangfastic
A bag of cheese Doritos
Another can of Fanta
A KitKat
Two bags of crisps.
A can of Fanta
A Plate of cake - someone was leaving.  Everyone else had a slice of something.  She came back to the desk with a paper plate, piled high. There were LOTS of cakes.  Lots and lots.  She had one of each, as far as I could see.

She left at 3pm.   I'm not sure she'd done anything constructive, except emptying her carrier bag of food, and eating cake.     She had, however, at 30-minute intervals, rummaged about under her clothes and sprayed herself with deodorant.  It doesn't work.  She actually reeks, and it's really not pleasant.  We all know what a grubby armpit smells like. Yes, like that, but with overtones of something chemically floral - like the green water in the bottom of a vase after the bouquet has died.  She's off for ten days now.  Perhaps I'm missing something.  People keep coming to her desk and asking her, in quiet tones, and with their heads cocked to one side, ''You okay today, (insert name here)?''.  She usually says, through a mouthful of something, that she's hot.  Sometimes, she's tired.  Sometimes, she's both.  Other than that, she doesn't say anything much. 

That's probably for the best. 

There are a LOT of weirdos in this office.  I'm not sure where I fit in...

Not ''fan''...tastic...

An entire packet of breakfast cereal - from new.  Some dry, and the rest with the best part of a pint of milk.
A double pack of jam doughnuts.
A very large coffee from the concession in the foyer.
A double pack of Bounty bars
A pack of Matzo crackers - not an individual pack, an entire box.
A triple pack of sandwiches - deep-fill variety.  The pack illustration showed some sort of greenery, so perhaps that counted as one of her five-a-day.
Two bags of crisps.
Another double pack of Bounty bars
An entire six-pack of double-finger KitKats
A bag of crisps
Four sachets of tomato cup-a-soup
A very large coffee from the concession in the foyer.

The person who ate EVERY SINGLE ITEM ON THAT LIST was sitting beside me in the office today.  She arrived after 9.00am, and her first words were ''I'm really tired.  Where have you put my fan?''  I had no idea what she was talking about, but it transpired that she thought I'd deprived her of her electric fan.  Eventually, the fan came to light.  It had been put under the desk - presumably by the evening staff.  Cue small hissy fit on the subject of thoughtless people, because she ''really can't do without my fan''.  By now, it was 10.am.  She hadn't done any work at all.  She'd had breakfast, hunted for the fan, and wandered about with one of her doughnuts and her bucket of coffee.

The fan finally went on - on the highest setting.  Me, being understanding about ''women of a certain age'', said nothing.  I wanted her to feel comfy.

Eventually, still moaning about how tired she was, she sat down and did some desultory tapping on the keyboard for about a minute.  Then she got up and wandered about a bit more.  Sat down again.  Tapped.  Got up.  Had a chat with someone in another department.  Ate stuff.  All on repeat.  By this time, the air around the two desks was actually frigid - the fan was pointed directly at me, and I was getting quite uncomfortable. Plus, every time I tried to scan something, the papers blew straight out of the top of the scanner.  When she returned from one of her trips, I leaned over.  ''Hi'', says I (and this is verbatim)  ''Without making yourself uncomfortable in any way, as I know what being hot can be like, would it be possible for you to angle the fan just a little bit, please, just so that it's not blowing directly across both desks?''

Sweet baby Jeebus, you'd have thought I'd asked her to hand over her food stash.

I got harangued about ''not understanding'', about how people are ''always hiding her fan'', about the ''special permission'' she has to use the fan because ''she needs it''. Oh, and she was also ''really, REALLY tired''.  Then she moved the fan about an inch to the right.  It was still blowing icy air across both desks and down my neck, but at least I could use the scanner without everything blowing out of the hopper.  Then the huffing started.  Then the theatrical blowing out of air, then fanning herself with a folder - because she was ''too hot'', even though the fan was still fully on.   Anyone who came within earshot heard about it.  This, along with the eating, went on until 2.30pm, when she left. Before she left, she swept a load of used staples off her desk and straight onto the floor. She didn't even turn the fan off. 

Pretty sure the two of us are not going to be making friends with each other any time soon. Today has not been a good day.

Butterball went home sick.  Unfortunately, she has seen fit to share her germs with several of her colleagues (me included).  Did I say today has not been a good day?

I chipped one of my back teeth whilst eating an oatcake.  Good day?  Nope.  Not today. Not feeling the love...

By all the Gods...

Today, having spent time with Gandalf of Excel, I'm feeling a lot more positive about my new role.  The more work I can take on with the project, the less involvement I'll need to have with Butterball.  This thought fills me with joy - as does the fact that April is going to be a very short month, what with Easter breaks and training days.  There are a LOT of training days at Fuckwittery Inc..  This may be why there's not a lot of actual work being done.

And then, courtesy of The Spectator, this...

On 29th March 845, Ragnar Lothbrok sailed up the Seine and successfully invaded Paris, not leaving until he'd been paid a ransom of some 2000 kilos of silver and gold by Charles the Bald, the king of West Frankia.

On 29th March 1461,  in their struggle to control the English throne, the Yorkist forces successfully routed the Lancastrians at the Battle of Towton.

However, on 29th March 2019,  another ''event of historic importance'' didn't go ahead as anticipated, despite two years of planning - for which mercy, applause all round - but it's getting tiresome now.  Obviously, the leaders of yore were made of sterner stuff and just got on with making shit actually happen, one way or the other.  I'll bet Ragnar didn't gather his Vikings together beforehand and  have vote upon vote upon vote trying to decide how best to get CtheB to capitulate.  He just called on Odin and waded in whirling his axes then, 600 years later, with God on his side and 10,000 fewer men than his rival, Edward of York just spanked Henry VI's forces into submission.  One way or another, someone has to take charge of this current mess.  Come back, Rag and Ted.  We need you!

A little of this, a little of that...

After a week in my new (temporary) life, I have observed the following:

1.  I can't drink the water here.  It makes me very, VERY poorly indeed, even when filtered.   Poorly to the point of weeping, in actual fact.  Immensely painful stomach cramps, huge bloating and, well...''lavatory issues'', over which we shall gloss.  Lord and Lady Oakwood have therefore purchased epic quantities of Mr Lidl's finest spring water for me.  It's being stored in the understairs cupboard, which now resembles nothing less than a ''prepper's'' hoard against the possibility of a major apocalyptic event, with or without zombies/solar flare/rogue biological agent.  I'm trying to ignore the plastic waste involved.  

2.  Cities (even the outskirts) are HOT.  I miss the sea breezes at home.

3.  Offices are HOT, even with the windows open.  The only breeze comes from the helicopters landing on the pad outside, at which times all paperwork and loose items must be firmly clamped to the desks, and people go a bit deaf from the blinds all clattering together. 

4.  Ladies of a certain age, when dragging a wheely suitcase (however small) from home, need a minimum of 15 minutes after arrival at destination (office) to cool down and stop sweating.  This is true even on cool days.  

5.  The full-length mirrors in the office loos make even the most willowy of sylph-like creatures appear 5 stone heavier, 3 foot wider and 2 foot shorter than they actually are in real  life.  Think what it does for the chunkier among us. It's like being in the Hall of Mirrors at the fairground...

6.   I hate wearing ''office'' clothes.  My new, sensible grey trousers, whilst elegantly cut and suitably well-fitting, make me very unhappy. The brief was ''no jeans, relaxed office clothes, no strappy or low-cut tops or tee-shirts''.   This week, I've bent the rules a bit and I'm wearing MY version of office clothes - dark brown fine needlecord drainpipe-cut trousers, black suede ankle boots, and, today, a tomato-red Ben de Lisi top.  No-one commented or sent me home, so I can only assume that's acceptable.  What can they do if not?  Put me in detention for uniform infraction?  I will not dress by George at Asda or the Tesco equivalent, which is what seems to be the default setting for ''office'' clothes here.  Tomorrow, it's the same trousers, topped off with a rather nice Phase Eight black, bat-wing sleeve tunic.  No surrender!

7.  The office is large, but has too many staff for the space, too few chairs for the staff and too few scanners to cover the amount of work required.  Everyone is permanently moving about, trying to find somewhere to sit.  This also makes a mockery of Health and Safety training, as everyone spends inordinate lengths of time moving chairs and scanners round the office.  Both are heavy, and very cumbersome to move.  

8.  Everyone spends the whole morning scarfing down sugary drinks and snacks, and then they wonder why they are all slumping by 2pm.   So they scarf down some more, then ask each other for paracetamol to counteract the headaches they've given themselves.  Seriously.  Every section has a table full of mini-bites of this, and tubs of that, boxes of chocolates, bags of crisps and cans of pop. The two large fridges are full of Slimming World microwave meals.   It's like working in a mini branch of Tesco. I've not seen anyone eat a piece of fruit, or drink the chilled water that's always available - except me. 

9.  On the plus side, though, the League of Fiends guys come through with a trolley on Friday afternoons - more sweeties, pop and, bizarrely, magazines.  This is newsworthy because the two guys who push the trolley round have music playing, and did their whole stint with us to the strains of ''Sweet Child of Mine'' - which the older of the two sang along to at the top of his voice, in tune and with great skill.  He was Awesome.  They might just turn out to be the highlight of the working week...