People. Can't live with 'em (bastards!), can't live without 'em (boo-fucking-hoo).
Rave on John Donne, ya good thing, for no man is an island and so forth.
This week, and for one week only (thank fuck!), I find myself in a rather unenviable position in my new Department. Thanks to holidays, the shorter working year scheme and other factors, I find myself all alone in the office. All alone, that is, apart from a person who seems to be the civil service's one and only Trappist EO. Or else he is a Father Stone impersonator. I don't know. But the silence is slowly killing me.
Anyhow, as the tumbleweeds blow gently among the forms, I find myself craving clerical officers, stupid ringtones, even fucking Vuvuzelas. I even rang the speaking clock to hear the sound of a human-ish voice. I had to stop myself when I realised I was dialling the number for Ryanair's call centre.
I was in a shop at lunchtime today and saw a packet of needles, and nearly bought them, thinking that if I stuck them in my colleague he might make some noise. Our HR department might have something to say about that, though.
I passed the undertaker's on my way back. "Fuck", I thought, "maybe he's dead! " Ah, no, he'd have gone off by now with the recent heat.
Then I passed the taxidermist... ah, too far fetched, even for the civil service.
Ok, I'm off out of the place for a couple of weeks soon myself, in the meantime I've had to transfer some of my Billy Connolly CDs onto the iPod thingy.
Next thing we know, there'll be a Trappist EO blogging about the loony EO he has to share an office with who keeps laughing loudly like the blind priest listening to Mr Bean on the "Flight into Terror" episode of Father Ted.
Now that I would like to see. It would prove that he isn't stuffed.
Rave on John Donne, ya good thing, for no man is an island and so forth.
This week, and for one week only (thank fuck!), I find myself in a rather unenviable position in my new Department. Thanks to holidays, the shorter working year scheme and other factors, I find myself all alone in the office. All alone, that is, apart from a person who seems to be the civil service's one and only Trappist EO. Or else he is a Father Stone impersonator. I don't know. But the silence is slowly killing me.
Anyhow, as the tumbleweeds blow gently among the forms, I find myself craving clerical officers, stupid ringtones, even fucking Vuvuzelas. I even rang the speaking clock to hear the sound of a human-ish voice. I had to stop myself when I realised I was dialling the number for Ryanair's call centre.
I was in a shop at lunchtime today and saw a packet of needles, and nearly bought them, thinking that if I stuck them in my colleague he might make some noise. Our HR department might have something to say about that, though.
I passed the undertaker's on my way back. "Fuck", I thought, "maybe he's dead! " Ah, no, he'd have gone off by now with the recent heat.
Then I passed the taxidermist... ah, too far fetched, even for the civil service.
Ok, I'm off out of the place for a couple of weeks soon myself, in the meantime I've had to transfer some of my Billy Connolly CDs onto the iPod thingy.
Next thing we know, there'll be a Trappist EO blogging about the loony EO he has to share an office with who keeps laughing loudly like the blind priest listening to Mr Bean on the "Flight into Terror" episode of Father Ted.
Now that I would like to see. It would prove that he isn't stuffed.
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