The Bell of Doom

My new job means a new desk in a huge, open plan office. This is a bit of a change of culture as previously I enjoyed a rather large cell all to myself. I now sit at a 'pod', and am currently feeling slightly inferior, as everyone else has lined their areas with box files and heaps of important looking, spiral bound documents. I quickly realised, like furniture shops have fake books on their shelving, the under-utilised employee needs fake box files. It leaves me in something of a quandry. Is it better to have a clear desk to look hyper-efficient, or does that create the illusion that you haven't got enough to do and must therefore be first on the latest redundancy list? Should I cover my desk in heaps of paperwork to look busy, but risk criticism for muddled working techniques? The other new thing about my work station is that it has a view. Yes, I'm on the ninth floor (feel a bit worried, I was on the first floor before and knew, if push came to shove, that I could dangle from the window sill and drop, Starsky and Hutch style, onto one of the vehicles in the car park. The police tended to park their vans under my window, so that would add to the dramatic effect). The view is a bit annoying, as being in an open plan office, I feel somewhat inhibited about gazing at it for too long for fear of finding another way onto that list.

Anyway, my latest fitness trend is to WALK UP THE STAIRS in the morning. There are 152 - consequently I arrive a bit of a wreck, knees a-tremble, but feeling quite smug. All that hard work means that when the tuck-trolley trundles into my pod zone and the tuck-chap rings his Bell of Doom, my resolve disolves and I observe (from that other being deep in my soul) one hand proffering 50p and the other reaching out to the rustic wicker basket that contains the chocolately items. If I want to make a cup of tea to go with my confectionery, I have to brave the communal kitchen with a set of rules I don't feel totally au fait with yet. I do know that one fridge belongs to the legal team and that I risk being arrested if I use their milk. The kitchen is mysteriously devoid of any utensils (is everyone on the ninth floor a kleptomaniac I wondered), so instead of stirring the tea, I just have to walk with a bit more bounce in my step to help it slop around to achieve perfect diffusion with the milk. This can go wrong and is not to be attempted while wearing anything white. On return to my desk I decided it might need to become the one that has helpful cutlery on it rather than bulging lever arch files with those annoying little Post-It page finders sticking out, inferring that the owner HAS READ EVERYTHING INSIDE.

The oddest thing about the kitchen though is that the fridges are confusingly intermingled with large, glass fronted computers. I can see this becoming a problem as the retirement age increases someone will eventually be caught trying to fit the milk between ranks of cables, sending the whole building into a pre-computer age winter. At least then I will be able to admire the view.