Waiting for this Madness to Pass

I've been feeling very happy lately. I felt so happy, and it felt so unusual, I actually caught myself wondering whether I was in fact going mad. I did meet someone in the lift (unusually I knew them already) and he agreed he too was unfashionably happy. We had a very jolly conversation about the wonders of waking up (good news, means you're alive), being free, not being in pain and having a job (food and shelter as add on extras). It was an eight floor conversation. It beat the three floor conversation I had with a stranger in the morning. He said he didn't like the rain. I said I didn't like the sun, and then heard myself explaining this was because I was, in fact, a vampire and dissolved in sunshine. Unsurprisingly, he didn't seem to want to talk to me after this.

You can see why I might think I'm going mad.

I was more relieved than usual when the woman who spends all her time sitting on top of the lifts announced the doors were opening.


******

They're coming to take me away, ha-haaa, They're coming to take me away, ho-ho, hee-hee, ha-haaa. To the happy home. With trees and flowers and chirping birds and basket weavers who sit and smile and twiddle their thumbs and toes and they're coming to take me away, ha-haaa!!!

The Desk Pillow

Why hasn't anyone invented the desk pillow yet? A fluffy confection of goose feather that fits neatly over your keyboard. It could include a rubber dribble resevoir to avoid any embarrassing dampness clogging up the 'f' and the 'g'. The base of your computer monitor would be adapted to have little concertina arms fitted to it. These would have boxing gloves on the ends. As your head lowered onto the keyboard one boxing glove would ping out to puff up the edges of the pillow, the other to pat you on the head while the computer murmured soothing 'there-there's . A special antenna would have to be fitted to the top of the monitor to react to a previously inserted microchip (situated in the position of your choosing about Major Paperclip's person) so that as he approached, the concertina arms would whisk the pillow away and re-arrange your head in the upright position. The screen would automatically show the latest comparative performance indicator spreadsheet, which would explain your bewildered expression to everyone present. You might need special add-on features, such as the velcro wrist band to fasten your hand to the mouse mat, so you are not rudely awakened by 'arm slip'. If anyone asks, you have the choice of wearing a pained expression and muttering 'RSI', or of wearing a secretive expression and starting a discussion on 'interesting hobbies'.

The Power of the Guinea Pig

I was heartened to see a very large banner hanging on a lamp-post outside a pet mega-market this morning. It featured a handsome close-up photograph of a guinea pig, doing what guinea-pigs do best - looking philosophical. He was obviously contemplating how contrary to the evidence of our senses, the belief in plurality and change is mistaken, and in particular that motion is nothing but an illusion.

You might wonder how I know that. It was all in the expression.

The far away look in the eyes.

Either that or he was just considering whether or not to eat the bouquet of daisies that the photographer had employed to keep him in place.

They eat guinea-pigs in Ecuador, so my friends, I think it's time to start the siege.

Serve de-skinned and fried in a light crumb coating.

NB: While writing this I came across a recipe for Rottweiler and sweet potato. Do Waitrose sell Rottweiler steaks yet?

Look Busy, Jesus is Coming

I was driving home and, having managed to bludgeon the window motor into life, both windows were open letting gusts of spring air rush around. I indulged in a little daydream, imagining the Skip was in fact a BMW Z5. My long, blonde hair was flowing out in the slipstream, my beauty dazzling male admirers who stopped to watch this amazing and obviously successful woman cruise down the street. They held the backs of their hands up to shield their eyes as, in slow motion, I smiled a diamond, sparkling smile from under my Ray Ban Wayfarers.

Then the lights changed.

As I drove I reflected on how it had been another heavy day at work, watching senior managers wrestle with paper planes in order to learn how to improve efficiency while building a Toyota Corolla. An initiative that I suspected had Major Paperclip written all over it. There had also been a minor skirmish over posters in the ecumenical chapel. 'My God!' the caller proclaimed, 'He pulled them all down'. I felt upset at having missed God doing his thing on our premises. Perhaps he really wanted to build a Toyota. They do last a long time.

Me, I'm happy in my Skip.

Orpheus sang his grief to all who breathed the upper air

The thin, young man with the face so white it glowed like the moon sat cross legged on the filthy tiled floor of the stinking subway. He wore a jaunty hat on a head that sagged from trembling shoulders. His only possession, a thin jacket, scrunched up in front of him. He didn't even have the energy to beg.

A group of suits walked past, faces flushed from the excesses of the after work drink. As they walked they threw snide jeers at him - like stones at a medieval prisoner in the stocks. The limp soul didn't look up.

'Are you hungry?' I asked, stupidly. The pointy chin in the shadow of the hat moved up and down. I left something I'd just bought from a late opening supermarket. I looked back from the stairs. His face was turned towards me and I was getting a thumbs up from one fist. It was like a jolt of electricity, this connection with a stranger.

On the journey home I wondered what series of events would need to happen to lose touch so completely with the functioning world. And how many of us have been close to it at some point?

Sadder still was the realisation of the magnitude of the task facing this ashen faced lost soul to find his way back.

Major Paperclip

There was once a Major who was proud to be in charge of paperclips. His comrades carried M2 Brownings to kill as many people as possible, but he was proud to carry a heavy duty staple gun. He was smug that while his comrades murdered the opposition, innocent civilians and sometimes each other, he only killed time. Major Paperclip enjoyed reading office supplies catalogues, and running audits of stock. He noted his colleagues only read pornography and counting how many cigarettes they had left. He also noted that while they might invade countries, he only invaded other people's personal space.

One day, General Postit announced that paper cuts were required. Not little cuts, but HUGE cuts. He called Major Paperclip into his office, and pointed to a chart on the wall. The chart was bisected by a red line, plunging to the bottom right hand corner. General Postit stamped his foot, hammered the desk with a fat fist and shouted that DRASTIC reorganisation was required to save money. The General inhaled momentarily and then spat out the chaser, 'AND THERE MUST BE NO DROP IN EFFICIENCY'.

Other majors might have been overwhelmed by the size and complexity of the task. Not Major Paperclip. After many hundreds of hours of careful thought, he experienced a dawn of realisation in his early morning bath. The answer to all the organisation's problems would be to KEEP THE STATIONERY CUPBOARDS TIDY. He leapt out of the bath and ran out into the street shouting his excitement.

Major Paperclip organised meeting after meeting, with more and more complicated spreadsheets and more and more computerised presentations in sinister, darkened rooms. The meetings were so important they required that more and more of the highest grade officers attend. The higher the grade, the longer the meeting and the more numerous the officers, the happier Major Paperclip became. The meetings were like a virus, spreading through the building.

The next day in the office, wearing his smartest dress uniform, complete with sword, he held the highest tier meeting he could muster and dispatched every person present to their respective stationery cupboards to make sure they were well organised. He marched back and forth as senior officers hurriedly wrote 'biros' and 'staples - 26/6' on sticky labels and affixed them to the melamine shelving. He ran his fingers round the inside of his shiny Sam Browne and barked the occasional order about whether hole punches (being heavier than lever arch files) should be stowed lower or higher up.

While Major Paperclip was managing to keep so many staff busy checking treasury tags and C5 (window) envelope stock and General Postit admired his updated chart with the red line pointing back at the ceiling again, no one noticed the invaders approaching.

 Disclaimer: Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is
purely coincidental.

Is it going to be a barbeque summer?

I went for a walk in the suburban paradise around Prefab Towers at lunchtime. Feeling fleet of foot, I decided to investigate the shop furthest away, which was whatever Woollies has morphed into. It was chock full of odd bits and pieces, a cheap imitation of what Woollies once was. Bike chains hanging next to sewing thread and chocolates. A little beyond the 'wardrobe systems' I was surprised to see what every shopper needs in a slightly dull lunchbreak. Cremation urns, in a stack. Woolworths never sold urns did they? Perhaps they were hidden in the vase section I never excavated properly.

I started to think about how they could work the 'buy one get one free' offers. They'd have to do what Tesco does and 'have one now, one later' (although that's only really helpful for the mass murderers among us). I felt dark thoughts creeping into my mind. Perhaps this part of suburbia is hiding the sort of middle class that barbeque unwanted members of their families, and then pop to Timmy Woolworth to get the urn. I bet the woman on the till knows a few things that might interest the police. Maybe the police should open an urn shop themselves - they could check out the shoppers who ask about the loyalty card scheme.

As I left I decided the positioning of the urns was wrong. They would attract more attention near the 'Happy 100th birthday' cards.

* * * * * *

NB: At secretarial college I sat next to a woman who actually lived next door to a man who had famously barbequed his wife in Richmond. She said they had wondered about the number of al fresco meals he was enjoying, and about the strange smell that lingered on afterwards.

Special K

I was quite excited driving The Skip this week. I had done 49,999 miles. I was on the M40 and had to keep staring at the digital read out to watch the mileometre change. I glanced up to wonder if I needed anything from the M&S outlet in the MOTO services, looked back and, blast, 50,000 was showing.

When I thought about it, I hadn't actually missed anything. It's not like it used to be, when whichever old banger we were driving hit 100,000 and you actually had the deep joy of watching the wheels with the numbers on roll round in unison. The last nought was always a bit slow, you wanted them to clunk down together, like a fruit machine hitting the jackpot, but that last one was always tricky. There was nothing remotely interesting about my digital read out changing, no lovely little wheely things whirring around. Why, when someone has kindly left the speedometre as a proper dial, can't we keep real numbers stamped on little wheels. Just think of the sense of acceleration you get with the speedometer needle swirling round. Think about the hint of blackberry and apple and faint expectation of custard you get looking at the pie chart quality of a real clock. (When anyone in my family ask for a portion of pie or tart, we always ask for '10 minutes', or 'quarter of an hour' on an especially hungry day). It just doesn't work in digital. Where is the food analogy with a digital clock? There is just the hint of GCSE maths with take-awaysies to base sixty. It's not the same.

Bring back dials, bring back real clocks that have a tick from a pendulum, bring back phones that jangle when they ring because they have a bell inside! Digital is dingy!

Going Down?

I'm in the lift, strange faces again. I was so absorbed in my new theory that I forgot to press '9' and then looked daft as I scrabbled for the button as the red dotted '8' swung by encased in upward 'v' signs. The suspect pair had a trolley and a couple of brown paper parcels with them. Props I expect. There's probably a wire basket Lucky Dip of office basics on the roof to help add credibility. Clipboards are popular, as well as the ubiquitous text book with the post-it tags. There must be a row of pegs holding variations on the council lanyard and ID card. I tried to look at one of the lift men's ID cards, but it was cunningly clipped to the edge of his trouser pocket, overlapping his groin. I didn't want to stare too hard in case my interest was misinterpreted.

I've been suspicious of lifts since watching a Saturday night thriller on TV aged about eleven. A woman and a psychotic killer were locked in an office block, and the whole film was based around how she was trying to avoid a grizzly death (by being garroted with a letter knife or similar) and spent hours going up and down in the lifts, hopping out at different floors to see where the madman's lift was. I think it's stayed with me past it's sell-by date.

I hope there's no letter knife in the Lucky Dip on the roof. I won't be responsible for my actions!

Can anyone show me the script please?

I work in a fourteen storey building, which must house a a finite number of employees. I've been working there over two years. How come every time I get in the lift there are people I've never seen before? In fact, when I use the kitchen on the ninth floor, if there is someone else squirting water from the boiler on a teabag, chances are I've not seen them before either. It's starting to worry me. Am I in a 'Truman Show' situation, where the actors are changing regularly? Should I try to break out through the skyline of my local suburbia, somewhere over Pound Mart and the non chain coffee shop that should be nice but isn't? Spookily, today someone was very friendly and spoke to me like they knew me - I could swear I hadn't seen them before. They took the stairs though.

Perhaps there's a crowd of people on the roof, just coming down one or two at a time in the lifts. If I don't get in, maybe they change on the ground floor and go up again until they are spotted. Come to think of it, the security guys in their office on the ground floor always look quite knowing. They're often on the phone too, perhaps they're sending a message to the group of bit-part extras on the roof.

I would take the stairs more often to avoid this conundrum. Trouble is, 252 stairs leaves me gasping for breath at the photocopier and my cappuccino has gone disappointingly tepid by the time I collapse, wheezing, at my desk. The (very good) coffee shop join me in some mild Health and Safety anarchy, and now super-heat my beverage to skin-grafting temperatures. Hopefully, as I get fitter, this won't be necessary. I'll be able to bound up the stairs three at a time, laughing joyfully as I biff the green button on the photocopier to wake it up on my way to my pod zone. I then biff the button on my computer which also takes a good ten minutes to come round. I take the opportunity to stare at the view of Canary Wharf in the distance, where my friend- who-did-better-than-me-at-school works. There must be loads of people in that building, I'll ask her if she recognises anyone in the lifts.