No such thing as a free breakfast

I have a friend who belongs to some kind of Ladies club which is constantly on the look-out for good causes to support. This morning the club was hosting a charity breakfast at a nearby hotel, and my friend asked me to go along.

The buffet breakfast was quite good, but a seven-course feast at the Savoy would have been no compensation for the talk we had to endure as we sat digesting our scrambled eggs.

The charity we were supporting was dedicated to assisting women who'd essentially married wealthy psychopaths, and preferred not to mix with the lower classes at the local police station or refuge for abused women. The founder of this charity was a three times-divorced former model who made repeated references to the 'diamonds' and 'sports cars' she'd possessed which made it inappropriate for her to seek assistance at such a shelter.

It appeared that we were there to raise funds for women in similar predicaments to get the therapy, financial guidance and expensive divorce lawyers needed for them to escape their marital hell with the substantial settlement they deserved.

While I do abhor all forms of domestic abuse, I've worked my entire bloody life so far and therefore could not muster up a huge amount of sympathy for wealthy socialites that married someone they could see was a dick, failing to consider the possibility of remaining single for a while as a viable option to sustaining black eyes & cigarette burns in a luxury Dubai holiday apartment.

Signed copies of her book were the raffle prizes. I didn't win one, disappointingly.

The Big Top

New Office Gripe #837:
Our parking bays were designed for circus midgets driving tiny clown cars. Fact.

The question must be asked: had the designers of our parking basement ever actually seen a car? Claustrophobically low-ceilinged, with tiny bays in awkward corners from which escape is impossible unless seven other people simultaneously move their cars, it's a triumph of urban design & planning.
 

Pathogen HQ

New Office Gripe #836: 
To gain access to the garden (or 'designated smoking area'), you have to pass through the Canteen. Sort of like crossing the infernal River Styx where all horrors dwell. Once upon a time there were little kitchenettes scattered throughout the premises, now the entire company is served by one kitchen (I use the term loosely).

I normally wander through there lost in thought with my eyes on the ground, which is a mistake as this brings to my attention the long strands of hair usually plastered to the sticky floor. A clean teaspoon is a rare commodity indeed at the tea station.

Hygiene continues to be an alien concept to the kitchen staff, and even apparent leprosy is no barrier to a long and successful career in our catering department. To venture into the back room of the kitchen where the dinner ladies hang out snacking on leftovers near the big industrial sink is to risk life-long bulimia nervosa.

Masterchefs

My chicken-slaughtering neighbours are hosting a little social gathering on their patio at the moment. Rather than fueling their barbecue with firewood or charcoal however, they appear to be using Industrial Revolution-era factory-powering chunks of coal.

The noxious fumes and clouds of smog are irritating the resident baby (and me), which is howling more than usual. If it's the same baby, that is. I have a theory that as soon as the baby starts learning to walk and crying a bit less, they immediately replace it with another screeching infant. It's a baby farm! Or else there is just the one baby, and it's got arrested development.

Parting shot

Presenting for your amusement the actual goodbye letter circulated today company-wide, on behalf of the MAM by his girlfriend. Includes helpful annotations by me in pink.

minibreak

It's been a very pleasant day. Having a public holiday on a Wednesday makes the week almost bearable, and should be a permanent fixture by legislation. I've just happened upon Superman II on one of the movie channels, and become strangely transfixed. Superman has decided to become mortal in order to spend time frolicking with Lois Lane in a big silver plastic bed that looks like it could become a bit sticky, quite frankly. In 1981 they probably thought we'd all have beds like that in the future.

As a mortal, Superman turns out to be particularly weedy though, taking a nasty beating from a trucker. It's also bad timing as evil General Zod (love the name) and his sidekicks arrive to take over the planet in stylish Bedouin-inspired outfits.

This film reminds me how disappointing the future has turned out to be: personal flight should definitely have become a reality by 2012. But no, still crawling to work at the mercy of the internal combustion engine.

Valley of the Dolls

Seen in the supermarket this evening. Disturbing...
I could've sworn I heard a high-pitched little voice squeaking 'Release me!'.

MAM reflections

A constructive afternoon of fleshing out ideas for the new SUV campaign. I attribute this to the absence of the MAM, and the fact that I am no longer distracted by thinking up ways to murder him. I can't help wondering what he's up to, though. Call it the macabre fascination of watching a gruesome accident in slow motion, but I do sort of miss having him around. He had the ability to make you feel really together, healthy and smug about your life in general.

 

And what of the messy break-up with his office lover The Secretary, which is surely on the cards? The public tears and recriminations would have brought a welcome touch of drama to the office environment. Now we will be deprived of that spectacle.

On the other hand, he was a complete arse and a source of massive irritation.

West is the Best

Yet more marketing genius on the roads! I was stuck in traffic on the way home this evening, with plenty of time to contemplate this gem. 

Hyper Tombstones - well classy. And of course nothing says 'funeral' like shocking magenta.

Medusa

Yet another new office issue: the mirrors in the washrooms are unflattering in the extreme. Or, more accurately I suppose, the lighting. The key is to get in and out quickly, using your peripheral vision for any necessary clothing or make-up adjustments. Sneaking a direct look at your reflection is risky and may lead to thoughts of suicide. Somehow though, I don't see this making it onto the snag list that will be submitted to the landlord.

Adieu, MAM

The day has finally come. He'd had a good innings, but the seemingly limitless patience of Upper Management finally ran out. Despite some last-minute attempts to establish himself as an indispensable creative asset and go-getter, his contract has not been renewed and a future of full-time vagrancy beckons. His lover, the prissy PA, is reported to be outraged and they both believe this to be an outrageous miscarriage of justice.

I would feel more sorry for him but in the past week I've been treated to the full benefit of his crass, sexist, cliche-spouting, scruffy, chain-smoking presence. Brainstorming became impossible because my thoughts were entirely focused on willing him to shut up and leave the table. Now Elvis (bloated drug-addled white jumpsuit era) is finally leaving the building for good.
But fear not, the blog will go on.

In bed with the MAM

More reluctant brainstorming with 'third wheel' MAM today. Grave danger of death from passive smoking. During a random discussion about whether it could be beneficial for a couple to sleep in separate rooms, he revealed that he and his new love start off the evening in bed together, but he then repairs to the spare room for the night as he is a 'restless sleeper'. Whatever. She probably kicks his stinking carcass out of there when the drunken snoring begins.

I imagine her waking as though from a hideous nightmare the next morning, relieved to find herself alone. Then he appears in the doorway in his soiled underpants, demanding a morning shag before they set off to work together.
I'm frightening myself.

the ultimate

I went into Woolworths today to look for a nice pot plant and emerged with a Queen-sized fitted electric blanket with silky fur finish and dual Starship Enterprise style controls. I think I'm going through that phase: 'I will buy a really good quality ................. (insert item) and it will last me UNTIL I DIE'. We'll see how that works out.

 

Meanwhile, it's back to thinking up an idea that has never been done before to advertise an SUV which  - gasp! - can be used by people wishing to travel to their offices and enjoy an occasional weekend in the great outdoors.

The week that was.

What a flipping week. Miserably long journeys to and from the new office. Discovering exactly how much I'd come to rely on all those little cafés, quiet shopping centres and ample parking in the environs surrounding the old office. Gone, gone, gone.

This week we've been trying to crack an idea to advertise a new SUV being launched by our big car client. The idea has to be based on a platform supplied by our strategy department, viz: that this SUV would suit individuals needing a car that will perform well in an urban, as well as off-road environment. Well thanks for that, Captains of the Obvious. I fully expect to get a coffee strategy from them in the near future: a hot drink that wakes you up.

washout

Routes #3 & 4 are both around 45 minutes' duration, which I think is as good as it's going to get. Also I'd better get used to refilling the petrol tank every five days. Another New Office drawback: it's impossible to find a quiet corner in which to be visited by the muse.

Venture outdoors, and a dozen nicotine addicts descend on your table wanting to be sociable. While attempting to occupy one of the glass-fronted boxes which management are pleased to call 'boardrooms', we were turfed out by people who had legitimately booked a meeting in there. We then dragged some chairs to a far-off swampy area of the garden which seemed promising until the sprinkler system was switched on.

The MAM has also attached himself to the brainstorming party which has compounded my discomfort. He constantly spouts utter crap, never shutting up to allow a moment's thought & reflection.

Oh, and the mole has been at work again. An emergency staff meeting was called today to counteract yet another damaging article about the company, this time on the front page of the newspaper. I now see parallels with the film 'Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy' which I watched last night. This saga is equally slow-moving and tedious. Like the headquarters of the Secret Service circa 1973, our offices are staffed with unattractive individuals and permanently shrouded in a haze of cigarette smoke. And nobody really knows what's going on.

Acclimatisation

Tried Route #2 this morning - slightly less disastrous than Route #1. Got to work in just under an hour, although it was a very contorted and petrol-consuming journey.

People are strangely reluctant to spend much time at their allotted positions in The Coop. The surroundings are not, how shall we say, terribly conducive to creative thought. Getting out of the office presents a significant challenge though. Upon leaving the gates (Arbeit Macht Frei) you are launched onto a busy main road without the benefit of a stop street or traffic light. I fear for the safety of the MAM when reeling home from the weekly pub night. Well, not so much actually.

PS. I have nagged my way into possession of a substitute laptop. In fact, a far superior 17" model.  When they ask for it back, I plan to have 'accidentally left it at home'. Repeatedly.

Cluck

First day at the new office. Trying out various routes to work in the forlorn hope of finding a way of getting there in under an hour. Route #1 was not a success. Trapped for an hour and a half in traffic hell. Oh, the golden age of last week when I could reach the office in twenty minutes flat.

Members of the creative department now resemble battery hens sitting in little regimented rows all the way down the room. Inspired corporate blue & grey striped carpet tiles add to the cosy atmosphere. Can't shake off one mangy old bird though - the MAM is still in close proximity. His love affair with the blonde PA is still going strong, but I've heard no further news about his bid for promotion.

Meanwhile, all our proposed boardroom names were rejected by management (surprise!) so it's back to the drawing board. I'm thinking along the lines now of 'The Coop', 'The Head Bucket', 'Spatchcock', etc.

Ps. laptop has not yet been returned.

Moving

The entire office got the day off while a removals company organised the exodus to our new premises. This is actually a minor miracle, as in my experience office moves usually involve the humping of many boxes and heavy pieces of furniture by the indentured work force.

It's been a very hot day. Full of misdirected zeal, I set off to buy DIY equipment in order to put up new blinds. At the hardware megastore I found a parking spot under a tree, and edged as far forward as possible to get the car into a patch of shade. I edged right onto an ornamental curb stone, scraping my bumper and coming close to pulling it right off as I backed out again.

Serves me right for squandering this unexpected gift of a day on attempted DIY when it should have been spent on the sofa.

confiscation

Had to surrender my company laptop today for some bint in the healthcare department who is going on a business trip to Dubai. The same annoying cow, in fact, that shunned my design offerings a couple of weeks ago in favour of the worst logo the world has ever seen. May she be arrested for failing to wear a veil and rot in a middle-eastern jail for the next twenty years.

Since I actually require the laptop for nefarious purposes such as subversive blog-writing as opposed to official work over the weekend, I was hard pressed to convince the IT department that my need was greater than that of the healthcare half-wit. Resentfully, I handed it over. Will have to laboriously type out further blog entries on the lilliputian screen of a smart phone.