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.

Sweet Dreams

I have purged the whole house of junk this week, and only have a couple of cupboards to go. One I noted, as I wrestled with the ironing board, is the kitchen cupboard. As I mentioned before, one leg got stuck on the folding shovel last time. Today, the ironing board snagged on a deer antler. I wondered for a brief moment if everyone has these things in their cupboards or is it just my kitchen that seems rather surreal. (As I write this, I am reminded of the party where a gatecrasher thought my kitchen was actually a club, so fabulous were the flashing disco lights and the fact that everyone was throwing their shapes while crunching across shards of broken wine glasses).

Anyway, as I am still enjoying a vinyl-fest from having discovered how to plug in the turntable, I blasted the basement with the Eurythmics as I tackled my mountain of ironing.

'Sweet dreams are made of this!', I yelled as the iron tried to straighten the crinkles in my favourite skirt. Oh, how I wish I could sing like Annie Lennox, I thought mournfully to myself. 'Purple Rain, Purple Rain' I sang as I swooshed over my purple top - seemed funny at the time, but maybe you had to be there.

The trouble with vinyl is the music finishes so quickly, twenty minutes is nothing before you have to fiddle around flipping the record over. What's worrying is that it seemed quite a long time back in the 1980s. Do we get ground rush as we get older? Do I want to be doing my ironing if the end of my life is approaching that fast? What should I be doing - fronting a rock band? Can I be Chrissie Hynde next time round please or maybe Annie - I'd enjoy being tall for a change.

Perhaps Annie Lennox does her ironing wishing she worked for the local council, shouting 'any apologies for absence before we tackle agenda item 1?'.

Maybe not, but how would she cope if she found herself in a kitchen emergency that required a folding shovel and a pair of deer antlers?

A Folding Shovel and a Survival Bag

I had an exciting journey to work in the snow on Wednesday. I enjoyed feeling slightly superior as I got into the Skip, which has '4x4' emblazoned on the side. The smile was wiped off my face as, at the first T junction, I applied the brakes and nothing happened. There was an ominous bang as I cruised into the car in front. The driver was very nice about it, and there was no apparent damage. My precious new number plate was hanging by a thread, but a couple of thumps with my fist seemed to do the trick. After sliding around at about 5 miles an hour, brakes juddering at intervals, I got within walking distance of Prefab Towers and skidded on foot into the office. I was 15 minutes late for my first day in a new job. Not a very good start, 'but at least I got there' said a kindly person offering therapy in the lift. That's one of the benefits of being on the ninth floor, you can meet new friends while the lift struggles to achieve escape velocity.

I was reminded of the snowy scenario when I went to get the ironing board out this morning. It caught on something in the bowels of the kitchen cupboard, which turned out to be the handy folding shovel I inherited from my father. It was in a bag that had followed us everywhere throughout my childhood in the boot of the car, and used to also contain tyre chains and a 'survival bag'. It even came on our summer holidays with the sister bag (goodness knows what was in that) making it difficult to fit all the holiday luggage in. Quite often the blue emergency bags would be stored in the passenger footwells which meant a 500 mile trip to Scotland would be made with our chins resting on our knees. My father once described how the 'survival bag' would save our lives if we were stranded in a snow drift. I tried to wear an expression of reassurance, but in truth I think I experienced one or two nightmares at the prospect of being zipped into a fluorescent green rubberised bag with my father while imprisoned in a Toyota Celica on the M1 somewhere near Newport Pagnell.

It all seemed quite far fetched in those days, not so now.

Easter's Come Early

I've just been to Tesco. I had to go - my vacuum cleaner has given up again, and the little independent vacuum cleaner and accessories shop I like to frequent was closed, 'for two weeks' it said on the helpful hand-written notice stuck to the metal shutters. I'm not a fastidious person, but two weeks without a vacuuming session, and there being a hole in the coal bucket (dear Liza), means my once cream carpet has gone a bit black round the grate. 'Big' Tesco (as locals like to call it) was the only place to go for replacements.

The first thing that hit me this time was the enthusiastic marketing of Easter bunnies and creme eggs, the 'season' being 1st Jan to 4th April (nothing much to do with the Paschal Full Moons then). I don't know about you, but I'm only just recovering from Christmas, and so was Tesco (cheap mistletoe-embellished cakes and whole walls built out of Pringles). The other thing I noticed about Big Tesco was the distribution of types of shoppers in the aisles. DIY equipment was wholly populated by men, the pharmacy area by old people, organics by corn braided shoppers in colourful coats. The only aisle that was empty was pet food. Twickenham dogs and cats must still be working their way through the left over turkey - not ready for the rabbit yet either.

While I was there, I was inexplicably overcome by the need to buy a new mop. I have trouble with mops. About once every five years I buy a new one, thinking it will revolutionise my life. I fell for the 'Vileda Supermop', I fell for the 'Wood Floor Mop System'. The problem with these is that you can never find the right replacement parts. I spent a dispropotionate amount of time considering the fixings of mop accessories, before succombing to the charms of the 'Tesco Sponge Mop', which looked simple to use even for me and, cleverly thinking ahead, purchased a replacement head at the same time. This should keep me going for about the next decade, floor mopping not being too high on my agenda.

I cruised home, strangely looking forward to some serious housework, and as I drove past the corporate concrete megolith that is the rugby stadium, I couldn't help wondering whether it might look better built out of unsold savoury snack tubes.

Wired

Phew. I've watched the whole of series one of 'The Wire'. I think I watched too much too soon as I now want to buy an orange sofa and call everyone 'Motherfucker'.

I'm a mother though, does that still work?

My son thinks not and waves his arms in distress every time I try to tell him dinner is ready.

I want to invest in the drug dealer look too; impossibly baggy jeans that show the waistband of my knickers (luckily Bridget Jones big ones work this style), a bicycle chain made of gold (I'll have to buy some Hammerite and cannibalise my old bike), a huge hoodie and some platform trainers. I will keep my middle two fingers permanently folded over, and randomly point to my groin with the remaining digits. I can also mumble about 'my stash' say 'yo' a lot and look furtive.

I think the neighbours are going to be a bit surprised.