The what?

Yeah. The blog has taken a turn for the unproductive. I wish I was strong enough to allot that necessary hour per day to write, but it seems I am not. This particular hour is being paid for by the company I work for. I’m somewhat reluctant to mention it by name as my boss is the kind of paranoid freak who records all phone conversations, doesn’t allow internet access and is in the process of installing closed circuit cameras in our offices. I know the password for the internet so two fingers right up!

For those who don’t know, I am working in an office that frankly deserves a sitcom. If I could get it commissioned, I’d write the bloody thing myself. It wouldn't need much imagination. The scenario and the characters have already been written.

I work in a company that is involved in the reuniting of lost animals to their panicked owners. The temptation to direct you all to the website to have a good chuckle is immense. I’ll make it a crossword puzzle. After the www, insert a seven letter word beginning with ‘m’ that means lost (rhymes with pissing). Then insert a four letter plural beginning with ‘p’ that means domesticated animal, and then insert a six letter word beginning with ‘b’ that means agency and rhymes with Turow. Then put a dot and a com.

My particular role in this madness is to wait for the telephone to ring. I live in some Beckett nightmare. Hours upon hours staring idly at a computer screen, waiting for bad news. Grateful though I am, people do not call to tell me that their domesticated animals are safe and well, idly scratching their balls and watching Corrie. As I write, the downstairs office is entirely empty, and the sound of the phone ringing will mean only one thing. A dog ‘registered’ with us has legged it from its owner. Despite the almost mandatory microchip that dogs these days have installed into their scruffs at the age of around six months, some people seem prepared to spend another two hundred pounds for our service.

A worried voice, a trembling, hysterical garble. Something about a german shepherd and a main road. Something about her being very scared of the dark and she was a rescue dog and she’s not used to strangers because she was abused by her previous owners and she must be so worried roaming the streets of Romford at night.

I sit right next to the front door. To get in or out of the building, you need one of two things. One, an infra red key that makes a beep sound and renders the door unlocked, or two, someone on the central desk to press the buzzer button to let you in or out. I don’t currently have an infra red key. I spend most days by the door explaining to my fellow staff that I don’t have the magic key so best to ask someone on the central desk who is probably on the phone demanding money with weak menaces to some old woman who has missed her last two payments. Mid sentence they sigh and lean over to the button to release the staff - only the door requires quite a yank. One can’t just pull, one must put the elbow in to get it open. Guests or those here for interviews don’t stand a chance of looking cool. Their entrance and indeed exit inevitably involves half of the downstairs office shouting ‘PUSH’. Sweating and red faced they push themselves into a room of misfits and eccentrics.

And alas it is time for me to go home. I will endeavour to tell you more soon…