Our new office space is something of a luxury in the Public Service (which, I am told, is very different to the Civil Service). Colleagues in other departments ask politely which building I'm located in and then affect mock snobbery, trying to disguise the fact that they are desperately jealous of my surroundings, which they imagine include potted plants, flatscreen monitors, a lift and a butler. There is all but. There is air conditioning and carpet, open plan office space and accountability. And there is state-of-the-art security, presumably in case there should be a rash of stationary thefts along the Lower Wrathmines Road. So we need to wave little fobs for the doors to open, which is about as state-of-the-art as your average public service employee can be expected to cope with. One of my coworkers has already run his over with his Mercedes, I myself was amazed to see another of my colleagues waving her handbag in front of what I am reliably informed is called "the reader" (but which, for clarity's sake, I shall call "the little box thing on the wall beside the door that you wave your fob in front of"). She left my Luddite brain dazzled by the devilish magjick for the merest of moments before laughing in my face and showing me the fob inside. Worryingly, I was still impressed.
They've never switched the little box thing on the wall beside the door that you wave your fob in front of on down at reception though. I can only assume that this is in deference to my humour in the mornings - I am grumpatron until half past teabreak and niggly little annoyances like having to root out a fob from the arsehole of my handbag because I can't manage the fob-in-the-bag magjick that the others can are best avoided until I've had some tea. But this morning, for the fourth morning in a row this week, I slumped defeated against it, a one-woman pileup. They've switched it on, after a year and a half.
The temptation, of course, is to see this in much the same way as I do my tupperware cupboard. As a crude and cruel metaphor for my life.
They've never switched the little box thing on the wall beside the door that you wave your fob in front of on down at reception though. I can only assume that this is in deference to my humour in the mornings - I am grumpatron until half past teabreak and niggly little annoyances like having to root out a fob from the arsehole of my handbag because I can't manage the fob-in-the-bag magjick that the others can are best avoided until I've had some tea. But this morning, for the fourth morning in a row this week, I slumped defeated against it, a one-woman pileup. They've switched it on, after a year and a half.
The temptation, of course, is to see this in much the same way as I do my tupperware cupboard. As a crude and cruel metaphor for my life.
