For Whom the Bell Tolls

Downtime's a bitch. After several weeks of frenetic activity in my unit, there is now a brief period of a couple of weeks to get my breath back before I start all over again. The Hexecutive has seen to it that the work allocation per EO in the unit is staggered, so we all get a crazy few weeks and a bit of brief respite. (This is new to me, as the only staggering this EO had ever done prior to this was out of the pub on a Saturday night.)

I don't like when it's my turn for downtime. I find it very difficult to revert to the customary plodding pace of the stereotypical bureaucrat after having rushed around like a maniac for an extended period. It's the equivalent of grinding abruptly to a halt after a run, instead of warming down gradually. (I know. I fucked my knees up once doing this.)

To alleviate the tedium, I invent 'work' for myself. Learning new software programs, that is, or swotting up on legislation, policy documents, cornflakes boxes, anything I find lying around. I'm being good, because I want a good stab at HEO the next time there's a vacancy. (No, I don't want to actually stab a HEO, except, maybe...on occasion... sometimes... the Hexecutive.)

Fairly soon, I'm in my own little world of personal development. My colleagues are rushing around, just like I had been earlier, and, for once, I do not envy them their meetings and conference calls. Until, that is, their phones start ringing. Often I'm alone in the office during my downtime and find myself picking up other people's extensions and taking messages. I can do this remotely from my desk, which is handy, as if I had to sit at Nosher's desk and use his phone, I might have to be cut free from all the sticky jam which covers everything within his arm span before I can get up again. 

So it begins:

"Hi, is Nosher there? He hasn't called Buns-r-Us for his doughnut order this morning, and we've extra staff on to handle the job, I'll have to send them home again if we don't get it."

"... ... ... ..." Silent phone call. I leave a message for the Trappist EO. 

"Hello? Morticia?"
"No, sorry, Morticia retired / died / something or other in 2010."
"Oh. What are you wearing, you little minx?"

"Is my mum there?"
"No. I'm afraid not, she's at a meeting."
"Oh. Ok."
Five minutes later: 
"Is my mum there?"
"No. I'm afraid not, she's at a meeting."
"Oh. Ok."
Five minutes later: 
"Is my mum there?"
"No. I'm afraid not, there has been a terrible accident. The corridor to the Boardroom has become engulfed in flames, and the Fire Brigade are held up in traffic, and there's been a chemical spill in the carpark... and...OH NOOOOOO!  ZOMBIES! Run away! Run awaaaAAAAHHHHH!"
"Oh. Ok."

"Hello, could I speak to Francis, please?"
"No, I'm sorry, he won't be back for an hour. Would you like to leave a message?"
"This is the Larry Bang show on FUFM. He has just won a case of the finest wines available to humanity."
"Aah! I see! I do apologise, actually that's me. Frances. With an E. Yahoo. I won those. Can you ship them to Ballyfuck? Now?"

When my colleagues return, they find their computer monitors festooned with badly scrawled sticky notes and I must spend another hour translating for them as my handwriting's bloody awful. By the time I've finished, it's almost time for my busy period.

But not before a stern talking to by the HEO re an upset eight year old who thinks her mother's been eaten by revenants. Some people have no sense of humour. 

Hey Mr Tambourine Man...Fuck Off!

Much change has taken place in my small work unit in recent weeks. (Oh no! Change! The enemy of the cossetted civil servant!) Personally, I like a nice bit of change. Keeps me on my toes and offers me an opportunity to stimulate the dim recesses of the brain which the Electro-Convulsive Therapy rods can't reach.

My erstwhile colleague, Morticia, has left for pastures new. A career break of some sort I believe. I think there's a Mediterranean cruise in there somewhere, so that Morticia can avail of the opportunities to drop in on friends like Benny in Rome, Nicolas' and Carla's holiday home in the French Riviera, BenAli in Tunisia - oops, scratch that one. She took the Atropa belladonna I presented her with some months back, and a large tub of emollient. Good luck to her.

In her stead comes a whole nut EO... I mean, a whole NEW EO. He has been redeployed from some other area of the Department which was found to have surplus staff. I call him Mr Tambourine Man.

Why? Is it because he carries around a small percussion instrument which marks out the tempo of his stride as he arrives into work in his Birkenstocks and white socks? Is it because he is always whistling Bob Dylan tunes?

Nah. It would be OK if he did these things. I could even forgive the tambourine. Those things are easy to grab and throw at people if they piss me off.

Mr Tambourine Man is yet another of that strange band of brothers in my new Department, the unattached Oedipal male. The kind of chap whose only experience of women is (a) Mammy, (b) Sister Nunzilla, the principal of the primary school, (c) Bridie from the Post Office, (d) Yer wan off Winning Streak. But particularly Mammy, as she is still washing his clothes and cooking his dinner even though he is now turning grey at the temples, has a cholesterol problem and is developing a middle-age spread (although not quite yet a member of the Masonic Order of the Generous Waistband like Nosher). He has been a civil servant since time immemorial and got promoted to EO on seniority because he dribbled slightly less than the other COs in his unit.

As a woman who does not fall into (a-d) above, I'm something of a curiosity to him. He likes to sneak glances across the room whenever he gets a chance. I am not dressed provocatively; my low cut tops with neon flashing lights "Boobs in here!" are kept for the weekends.

He doesn't know the correct method of initiating a conversation with a member of the fairer sex. A simple "Did you get any bastards canvassing at your front door last night?" would work for me, as I could describe my "BIOHAZARD- PROPERTY QUARANTINED DUE TO EBOLA OUTBREAK" sign that I had made specially for the front door. And the Petri dishes with the actual virus in them that I've placed at regular intervals around the driveway (I'm not saying where I got those).

Nah, Mr Tambourine Man prefers to let the woman kick off the discussion. He returns from tea break and paces up and down in front of my desk for a few minutes, in the hope that I'll look up and say, "How were the scones today, Colin? How many teeth did you lose today?" A pointless gesture, because I don't look up and enquire about the fucking scones. This pacing is disturbing and is having the opposite effect to what was intended. His attention seeking does not stop there, however. He puts his hand in his pocket and proceeds to play with an unfeasibly large...

...penis?

...NO!

...an unfeasibly large amount of change. Jingle jangle. And more fucking jingle jangle. "Oh Colin, what an awful lot of money you must have," he seem to be willing me to say. Seriously. Is the sound of clinking monetary shrapnel the equivalent of the Sirens' song to Ulysses?

"In the jingle jangle morning, I'll come following you..."

I won't follow you, so fuck off, Tambourine Man, and put it in a pint glass on your bedside table like most normal people. I bet you pay for your scone in the canteen with 1c coins.

Earlier in this post I said I liked change.

Why do they punish me so?

Where everybody knows your name... almost

I’m not going to write about the Budget 2011 and its raping of my already gang-raped pay cheque. I have more pressing things on my mind right now.

It’s that time of year again, the annual office Christmas “do”. As I’m in a whole new Department, I’m filled with trepidation at the thought of what kind of festivities my new colleagues indulge in.
I’ve already established a list of people beside whom it is safe to sit at the dinner. Basically, it’s anyone who is not:

- The Trappist EO. I am a convivial sort, and sitting next to a silent colleague would be awkward, but he is the best of the lot of them, if I want him to make noise I could stick him with my fork.

- The Bionic Woman. The colleague who has so much cosmetic dentistry and Botox and IUD devices inside her that she is surrounded by a strange magnetic field, has paper clips stuck to her back and can change ringtones on people’s phones merely by coughing.

- Morticia. Just...go away. I don’t care about the turkey and ham you ate at a table a Bishop sat at once.

- Nosher, the corpulent EO. I can see him now. “Govstooge, look at the lovely outfit Mary is wearing!” I look. “Oh yeah, nice top,” I agree. I look back at my plate. WHERE HAVE MY FUCKING CHIPS GONE?!!!? Nosher is grinning and rubbing his ample belly.

- My arch-nemesis. Yes, I have one. Even here. Nothing’s ever happened between us. It’s a hatred akin to that of Maggie Simpson and Gerald, the monobrowed baby who seem to simply glare at each other, just as this colleague does to me. (And I reciprocate, because underneath all this erudition and consummate professionalism, I am profoundly childish.)

That leaves me with: The HEO, his boss, their boss and some other uber senior manager.

Does that mean I’ll be kissing serious arse at the table?

The pub, karaoke and other crap will be another matter entirely. It’ll probably involve dancing.

I hate dancing.

The Silence of the EOs

So, thanks to the inclement weather today (The high winds mean that a person of short stature such as myself runs a risk of being blown into the Atlantic if they put a foot wrong), I found myself remaining on in the Department during lunchtime and, rather than break my teeth on a concrete-like Departmental Scone in the canteen, I remained at my desk with a large coffee.

It was quiet. Bloody quiet.

Morticia hasn’t been seen for days. One of the last times I spoke to her, she was wittering on about it being her birthday and “oooh, I don’t want to tell you how old I am, but it’s between 58 and 60,” she prattled. She seemed to have been angling for the rest of us to get her a present seeing as she plans to retire/ take a career break/ die soon and it’s likely to be her last one in the Department. When I looked around there was no-one else within earshot who I could – ahem – “volunteer” for the project, I felt it fell to me to do something for the good lady.

Actually, I tell a lie. There was someone else within earshot. The Trappist EO. Not exactly a good person to fob the whole project onto. Apart from the protracted silences, the said EO is widely known to be the only civil servant who can claim an input into the production of metamorphic rock – i.e. if you shoved a lump of coal up this EO’s arse, it would come out as a miniature, sparkly Hope(less) Diamond.

Anyway, I hadn’t got a lot of cash to spare myself. What little I had at the time was earmarked for essential stuff, like beer and books. And I was fucked if I was going to spend it on someone I didn’t particularly like. A small unit like ours would yield fuck all cash anyway if I had a collection. I felt, however, that it would be a small outlay considering that we’ll be shot of Morticia for good in the next year or so, and, with this in mind, I set about contemplating what would be nice to get for her, that wouldn’t make any sort of a dent in the personal finances.

Having sifted through all the options open to me, and thinking that the giftwrapped dog poo was taking things a little too far, I opted instead for a nice flower from my garden in a pot. Morticia was ecstatic when I brought it in the next day. She placed it on her desk, right beside the picture of the Taj Mahal and Princess Diana with a cutout of Morticia glued crudely to one side. She watered the plant, stroked it and sang songs to it for the whole day. That evening, she picked it up carefully and took it home.

She has not been seen since. And it’s a pity, because I'm interested to know how my cutting of Deadly Nightshade (atropa belladonna) is getting on.

I still think it was a better gift than the poo.

The price of nosiness...

Ok, I've been in my new Department a good five or six months now. I know how most things work so far and I suppose I'm generally content. Some things make me wonder, though.

I'm not usually a nosy person, I don't give a fuck about the tedious minutiae of the lives of others (I am not, or have ever been, a Stasi agent). However, all this went out the window one evening last week when I was returning to my desk after having been to the toilet. I was working back a little bit later than usual and think I may have taken my colleague, the previously mentioned Trappist EO by surprise.

The Trappist EO was on the phone! He glanced up as I returned to the room, with an expression akin to that of someone caught by the Bishop having a wank on a Richard Dawkins book at the back of a church. The conversation was terminated very quickly at that point, and the consternation of the other party was audible from my side of the room before the receiver was replaced.

"Hmmm..." I thought. "What the feck was all that about?"

The next day, the Trappist EO had returned to form. Nothing was said. Lunchtime rolled around, and I expected the Trappist EO to vacate the room and make his way to the canteen before the one o'clock rush, as is his daily, unchanging routine.

One o'clock, and he was still there, meditating on a pile of forms. "He's up to something," I thought, and decided to delay my own midday outing purely for the reason that he might be waiting for me to get out in order to make another one of his furtive calls. "I'm not moving until he does," I resolved.

Unfortunately, the two cups of coffee I had earlier were making their presence felt, and nature was calling, loudly, but not quite shouting. Yet.

1.30, and both of us were still manning the office in silence. He was shuffling bits of paper around his desk with an inscrutable expression. I was trying to hide the fact that I was pressing my legs together while wiggling in order not to reveal the fact that the flood gates could open at any moment. Fuck. What was I doing to myself? A ruptured bladder just to hear the Trappist EO making a call?

1.45. He was finally off. Maybe he gave up. Phew. Now came the hard part. I had to negotiate an open-plan area full of COs and a corridor with some APs' offices off it in order to get to the toilet. I rose, steadily, keeping my legs crossed. I grabbed a bundle of forms that I could pretend to study if I had to make an emergency stop along the way. Waddle waddle waddle, through the open plan area. I stopped right on the threshold of a double door, a group of COs parting as they passed me on either side on their way back to work. I felt my face going red. More waddling, until I reached the door to the toilets. I ran a gauntlet of gossiping civil servants before finding an empty trap.

Aaaah, major wazz. Crisis averted! And not a drop spilt!

As I sat there, I thought, nosiness is never worth it. Just think of the embarrassment I could have suffered had I had a major accident in the Department! I'd have to look for a transfer back to Squeaky Doors, a fate worse than death!

No, next time, I'm just going to drop a "listening device" in the office and save myself the hassle.

Blaaaaaaart!

Morticia approached me yet again today. She toddled right up alongside me and said:

"I have an Orts degree, you know."

Now, in my present Department, there are a great many people with Arts degrees. And Business degrees, computer science, even electronic engineering graduates. It's not unusual to have a degree in the civil service. I myself am the holder of an Arts degree, along with a Master's in a humanities discipline. This I reveal to my colleague.

"Ooh", she replies,"but you're not using it." This, said with a smug little smirk and a victory wiggle, which make me furrow my brow and retort curtly:

"Yes I am. A large proportion of what I studied is relevant for what I'm doing right now." (This is actually true, even on EO pay!)

"I'm not using mine at the moment", Morticia confides in me. I'm half expecting her to offer to sell it to me for an aloe vera plant and the chain of paper clips I had in my old Department for whipping clerical officers with.

"I wouldn't have thought so," I reply "as a lot of your generation (ha! Age dig!) doing Arts would have become teachers, or would be higher up in the civil service."

Morticia looks dejected, as her attempt to make herself feel superior to me has backfired in her face.

I smirk and turn back to my work. Morticia returns to hers without saying another word. I did a little victory dance in my swivel chair. I'm a really crap dancer, so I nearly fell off and had to make it look like I was picking up a biro I'd dropped.

The virtual Vuvuzela of victory in my head was going "Blaaaaaart!" for the best part of the next hour.

I go away for two weeks and this is what happens...

Ah, the iridescent glow of sunburn on pasty Irish skin. And not just me, either. Most of my colleagues are back from their summer holidays now and red is the new trendy colour in the Department. Red with a nice peely texture. Yummy. Not for me the beach or the swimming pool, however, I spent my leisure time bouncing merrily on beer-fuelled hikes through non-touristy areas and gaining a nice bright farmer's tan to boot. Oo-arr!

So the silence I'd been suffering in before I left has ended. And there's been another EO thrown into the melange! Oh what fun, another person for me to glower at! So here I am, sandwiched between Mr Trappist EO, the untroublesome CO and this newbie EO who bounded over to me to introduce herself.

EO: "Hello, I'm Morticia! And how are you this fine morning?"

Govstooge: Uhurrrgg. It's my first day back. What do you think?

Morticia: And where were you?

Govstooge: I was hiking in the little-known principality of Fukofaganski.

Morticia: Well, what a co-incidence! My grandmother was born on Fukofaganski, and we still have a house there, don't you know.

Govstooge: Err, no. I've just met you.

(Much blather follows from Morticia about the wonderful baroque architecture of the Cathedral of Saint Stinkyfoot of Bollixybillski, the capital of Fukofaganski, and the glorious Roman Wazzatorium which is preserved nearby.)

All of this, of course, while Morticia is leaning over my desk, breathing this morning's rancid camomile tea breath all over me.

Suddenly, my phone rings! I heave a sigh of relief. But Morticia doesn't go away! She clings onto my desk attendant on the end of my phone conversation, ready to compare Fukofaganski with a myriad of other places around the world, just to illustrate how awfully well-travelled she is.

Jesus.

I don't fucking care if you think the temple of Wan Ker in Malaysia looks like a stone on the road outside the Pontifical University of Bollixybillski.

Go away.

I hate you already.

Who will rid me of this turbulent EO?

There is a silver lining though. Morticia likes to talk an awful lot about herself and has already provided me with a happy ending. She may have just transferred into my area, but plans on taking a career break soon or maybe even retiring, as she is of that vintage (even in spite of the inane chatter akin to that of a very insecure teenager).

I could barely conceal my glee, and smiled across at the Trappist EO.

He was grinning too.

Loneliness of the Short Arsed EO

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.

Shooting the Breeze

Most people I know like to catch up with current events and gossip over pints at the weekend or a convivial tea break in the Department canteen. This is an important part of our daily lives and it helps if it's done in reasonable comfort.

Which is why I can't understand people who conduct their social lives in strange places.

Like on the stairs. As someone who likes to jog up and down stairs I frequently find myself impeded by groups of middle aged women who, at some stage, decided to take a rest going upstairs and just stopped where they are, ripe for being run into by that rarest of civil servants, the energetic ones. And do you think they say sorry, cop on and go somewhere else? Not likely. There must be a rule somewhere in the civil service code of conduct that says "You must inconvenience a minimum of three people daily in shared areas". If I find where this rule is written and if it doesn't specify how I should inconvenience others, then I'll resign myself to kicking these people up the fucking arse.

The ladies' toilets are also ripe, in more ways than one, for social gatherings. What more perfect way to get the latest news with the tinkling background music of hissing piss and the gentle percussion of poo plopping into the water? Not to mention the attendant aromas? It always disturbs me when I walk into the workplace loos to find two women gossiping and who glare at me when I enter, as if it were their private space. They are usually still there when I've finished washing my hands.

Worse again are those acquaintances from other sections who attempt to engage me in conversation in the bathrooms.
"Hello Govstooge."
"Hello Lucretia."
"Any holidays planned?"
"No, but I've just come back actually."
"Really? Where from?"
"Outer Mongolia."
"What was that like?"
"Pretty good. Whiffed a bit in places, mind. A bit like here. Have to go, I'll talk to you later."

Maybe for the next staff suggestion scheme I'll make a submission saying everyone should set up a Twitter-type thing on the Department intranet. That way we'll know what everyone else is up to. We won't even need the canteen after that...

Eh, maybe not. Coffee anyone?

L'enfer...

...c'est les autres. At least, that's what Jean-Paul Sartre once said.

And I'm inclined to agree. Hell truly is other people.

Take one of my colleagues for instance. Let's call this colleague "Calamity" for illustrative purposes. I don't work directly with Calamity as he is in a different office, but I speak regularly with him on the phone. I shouldn't, but I invariably do, ask, "How are you today, Calamity?" Because this invariably leads onto a litany of the latest woes to befall this misfortunate functionary.

So far, I've been told:
"My arse exploded last night."
"My wife's arse exploded last night."
"I was off last week. Spent the whole time in bed with a bucket by my side."
"I was on holidays in Darfur. Stupid time to go, really."
"There was a dead sheep with an upside down crucifix stuck in it nailed to my front gate this morning".
"Hitler's ghost woke me up last night."
"Bertie Ahern is my best friend."
"The hubcap came off my X5. I have an X5 you know. It's shiny."

For several months now, I have been a shoulder to cry on for Calamity. I have been a sounding board for all his problems. I have been Marjorie Proops, Doctor Phil, Joe Duffy, all rolled into one. I have interjected his lament with "ooh you poor thing" on innumerable occasions, so much so that when my nearby colleagues hear this phrase they have to snigger and say to each other "Uh-oh, Govstooge's onto Calamity again."

I bet you are thinking, "Aaw, Govstooge's really nice after all." No? Oh well.

Anyway, Calamity, if you happen to be reading this in between your bouts of vomiting and missing hubcaps, please take note that I am no longer a free counselling service. Find a properly qualified therapist and pay them whatever they ask, you earn more than me anyway, you tight fucking bastard.

And next time a piece of information goes astray between my department and yours, complain to me directly. Don't ring up my managers denouncing me and making out I don't know what I'm doing, even though it was the first time something went wrong.

Because, if I knew where you lived, I'd be round there to give you something new to complain about.

Hell is Govstooge with a pointy stick.

New Recruits?

What is it with people bringing their babies into work? Today I had to endure shrieks and cries from the other end of the office along with all the other shit I have to put up with when a colleague brought her little bundle of joy into work.

Oops. I might have made this sound all wrong. Let me clarify.

The shrieks and cries weren't from the baby, who was gurgling peaceably in her carry-cot and smiling angelically at everyone. Aaaw. Bless.

It was the middle aged women who were crowded around who were making all the noise! Women whose voices were never meant for indoors! Women who could have made a living as lumberjacks "Timberrrrrrr!"! Women who have done nixers for the local builders when their angle-grinder broke and they needed something to cut sheet metal with, fast! Now think of a crowd of about ten of them and you've got the picture. Shudder. The ensuing cacophony was deafening!

"OOOH She's just like her MOTHER...!"
"DID YOU SEE THAT, DOREEN, SHE WINKED AT ME!"
"AAAAW AREN'T YOU A LITTLE DOTE!"

Fuck it. Let's just sack these loud middle-aged women and replace them with babies. Even on a bad day, a baby wouldn't make the same amount of noise. In all probability, they smell better as well. And they don't care about benchmarking, strikes, NAMA or Eastenders. All they want is a bottle, a clean nappy and a bunch of keys to keep them happy. Swap forms for keys and we're on a winner.

I think it'll work. With a bit of careful planning, no-one will notice the difference. There'll even be the same amount of drool.

Rabble! Rabble! Rabble!

You know the summer's over when all the folk who've been on Term Time Leave during the summer arrive back to work. (Edit: If the summer ever started in the first place. It is Ireland, after all.)

For anyone who's had their head buried in piles of forms all summer, here are the tell-tale signs.

The multitudinous, echoing cries of "Welcome back" and occasional hugging. Have you ever seen civil servants hugging? Fat ones, I mean? 'Tis a fearsome sight.

Being cornered in the ladies' toilet as you dry your hands by someone you don't particularly like saying "So what did YOU do this summer, Govstooge?"

Endless, long winded descriptions of holidays. To be repeated ad nauseam as people continue to arrive in the office. The story about your husband being stung on the willie by a jellyfish in Mallorca was funny, the first, the second and even the fifth time. But now I've heard it twenty times I'm starting to lose my patience.

Having people ring your extension asking "Is Hermione there? Her line's engaged." and you answer "Yes, she's on the phone to her friend downstairs, and there are two other calls holding for her. Would you like to remain in the queue?" Goddamn it!

Having the number of staff you supervise nearly double overnight. Excellent from a workflow point of view, but not so excellent if you have to spend an hour reminding each one what their job was.

Finding a car parking space becomes almost impossible if you're a late starter. Similarly the availability of croissants and tables in the canteen is curtailed significantly.

The "Term time" scheme is no longer open only to parents of school-age children during the summer. It's now been opened up to the rest of us by having been renamed "Shorter Working Year Scheme". Unpaid, of course.

I must say, I'm tempted to join their ranks. Maybe during the winter, when the weather's less harsh.

Get the hell out of my face!!!

Dear colleagues,

It has unfortunately come to my attention that some of you have a nasty habit of creeping up on me while I'm working.

I wouldn't mind if your advances were directly related to my area of work, or even vaguely GAA-themed.

However, when you flip flop up to my desk chewing gum in my ear and ask me (without even so much as a "please" I might add) to tell Antigone when she's off the phone that you have gone for tea, don't expect a smile and a cheery "Sure"!

You'll be lucky to get a curt nod. Like you did today. Try it tomorrow, and the result might be different. I might just chase you through the section throwing staplers, forms and other random office paraphernalia in your general direction. Because I'm trying to concentrate on what I'm doing. Your spearmint-tinged halitosis has just sent me back to square one.

This is not confined to my immediate colleagues, but extends to those of you "visiting" from other sections also. I don't know most of you from Adam, so why pick me to pass on a message?

Just fuck off.

Or I'll bite.

Govstooge

CC: Facilities Management

Where's the fucking perspex screen for around my desk?

Soul Food

Well, here we are again, the exhilarating start of yet another exhilarating week in the bowels of a dusty Government office.

Thankfully, I have many interests outside of work. Outdoor pursuits like hiking and cycling, writing this stuff, attempting to resurrect two unfinished novels and endeavouring to delight my palate and those of my occasional dinner guests with delectable and spicy Indian goodness. And not always succeeding. Well, that's part of the fun, I find.

I love to talk about food with my like-minded colleagues. We share tips and tricks and meal suggestions.

Today, I engaged in a discussion with a colleague about what to do with leftover star anises which sometimes find their way to the back of the cupboard and get forgotten about. (That's ANISES, not ANUSES! Although Anuses are sometimes referred to as Chocolate Starfish.) I got a tip to try boiling one with rice and turmeric. Hmm. I will try that later in the week. With a star anise. Not an anus. I don't particularly want my rice to taste of boiled anus. Blehh.

A nosey colleague happened to enter the office just as we were discussing this, and wandered over to listen to the conversation. When it finished she inhaled deeply and blurted:

Nosey: Wow, you're quite the cook, Govstooge? Aren't you?
Govstooge: I try.
Nosey: Is it just Indian stuff you do?
Govstooge: No. I try everything. But Indian's my favourite.
Nosey: Wow. You should be a chef!
Govstooge (Thinks: Umm. Is somebody looking to wangle an invite to one of my curry nights? Just so she can have a look round my house? Well, I'm fucked if that's going to happen, so...) No, Antigone. I couldn't possibly be a chef.
Nosey: Why not?
Govstooge: Because the doctors told me I can't work with knives. You see I have this uncontrollable urge to cut. Others who stand so close to me, usually. Like you're doing now.
Nosey: (Running away) Waah!
Govstooge: But I don't have a knife now! Just this pointy letter opener....

I'm sure my readers of the psychiatric profession are now consulting their Diagnostic and Statistical Manuals. But really, it's a defence mechanism against intrusiveness. I hope our Personnel Department feel the same way.

Anyway, tonight's Tarka Dhal was rather nice indeed. I didn't even burn it or anything!

The Spanish Inquisition

While at work I like to intensify the total-fucking-bitch side of my personality. I'm somewhat hotheaded, especially when very busy. This can take the form of swearing, shouting, slamming doors and silent rages when people only need to look at me to know if they can approach. It's merely a defence mechanism, when you are stuck in the middle of an open-plan area you must guard your space and what infinitesimal privacy you might have, in order to get on with any work that requires concentration. Sometimes just a look from me says it all but people know they can still ask me if they need my help on anything. I won't eat them. Really I won't.

I'm also one of those workers who runs up the stairs and hurtles down the corridor at warp speed even if I'm only going to the fax machine. This has the effect of scaring some people. Take for instance, the office bore. The office bore will meander his way through the doors in the morning, stop to talk at a colleague, scratch his bollocks, go to the watercooler and amble with a certain insouciance to his desk. Unless Govstooge is coming in the opposite direction. Whoosh. He is startled. He stands back. He looks behind him but I am long gone.

So, by being a bit scary at work and by running past him in the corridors, I can avoid being earwigged by the office bore.

But sometimes his curiosity gets the better of him and he spent most of this morning building up the courage to ask me about where I'd been for the past week. At roughly 3 o'clock he seizes the opportunity, overhearing me in conversation to a couple of my staff, and wanders over to join in. And boy, does he seize his opportunity! His staccato questioning is worthy of Nazi interrogators!

"So, Govstooge, you were away?"
"Yeah."
"Was it warm?"
"Yeah."
"Was the food nice?"
"Yeah."
"What type of food?"
"Garlicky stuff, seafood. Foreign muck. You wouldn't like it."
"So you'd have to like garlic then."
"Yeah."
"Did you swim?"
"No. But I did spend several hours looking at the lovely tanned men lounging on the beach, their bronzed biceps and sixpacks rippling in the sun. And nice tight buns encased in skintight thon..."
"Err..." Wanders back to own desk.

There you have it. The merest hint of sex. A non-scary defence mechanism. Works better than shouting at him to fuck off. Works best on those timid blokes who still live at home with their mums.

P.S. The local Sinn Fein candidate just called to my front door canvassing for the local election. I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti. Slurp slurp slurp.

Art classes

"I'm taking up an art class in the evenings", a colleague told me today.

"Cool", I replied, "what kind of stuff will you be doing? Nudies and that?"

"Nope. Still lifes."

"Oh right. So you'll be coming in here painting some of the employees at their desks then I take it?"

"If you don't mind."

"Oh, go on then."

Springtime...

...For Hitler (from The Producers - the original one!) was all I could find when trawling Limewire for recordings of Nazi marching songs to get me in the mood for bollocking some COs at work. It doesn't set the correct tone somehow I think. (But it is very funny.)

Well, as I gleaned today from a circular, there is going to be a freeze on all recruitment and promotions until the end of 2010. That means I'm stuck as an EO for another two years, roughly (yes, though I might moan about HEOs a lot, I would never refuse a HEO pay packet). So I'd better start taking this EO malarkey a bit more seriously. Especially now that there isn't a ponderous deadline hovering over me and I now have no excuse to keep ignoring my staff.

As a consequence, I've started to notice things aren't quite as they should be.

I have my noisy CO (see the previous post) - a trial all of its own. And shoving a gobstopper in the CO's mouth wouldn't solve anything, it would merely result in incessant slurpy sucky sounds, which turn my stomach. I have requisitioned a large industrial type stapler from supplies, but with the cutbacks, I'm not holding out much hope. Glue may be my only recourse.

I also have my slacker CO. Whose desk is in such a position that I can't creep up behind them to see what's on their computer monitor. Slacker likes to shoot the breeze with Noisy and might also merit glue on occasion. Slacker will do anything but work. If there is a training course on advanced phytomechanics (I don't know if such a discipline exists, but it sounds impressive) Slacker's name will be on the booking sheet. Just to get away from the actual job and all the forms. Slacker will leave the section - ostensibly to go to the toilet, but if I happen to walk down the corridor ten minutes later I will invariably find Slacker deep in conversation with another slacker. A rap on the knuckles is coming, and it's coming fast. I've already been in touch with the local ironmonger's re manufacturing a set of manacles with a chain that I can attach to the desk to ensure the work is done, and above all, that I don't look bad to my own superiors.

Those are the folk who deserve a bollocking. Slightly annoying, and not in line for any sort of dressing down, are the following:

The very very quiet people. People who just get on with what they've been asked to do quietly and without complaint. I love them. They don't cause me any headaches. But sometimes quietness might actually be reticence... for example, in a PMDS meeting:

Govstooge: So, any upward feedback? Be as scathing as you like.
CO: No, I'm happy enough.
Govstooge: That's great, but if something was wrong you'd let me know, right?
CO: Well.... actually... now that you mention it...
Meeting lasts half an hour longer than it's supposed to while the CO outlines their problems.

I still love them though. They make me look good.

And the hypochondriacs.

A CO rings in sick:

CO: Yeah, I'm going to the doctor later. I've got the shits real bad. And there was blood in it. I might have to give a sample to the hospital. I hope it's not anything more serious. I know someone who had bowel cancer you know. And they had a septic toe. Come to think of it, one of my toes is sort of tingling right now. I had athlete's foot last month. God. It stank. I left my sock out of the wash once by accident and when I found it a couple of days later it had three Portobello mushrooms growing on it.
Govstooge: Bleargh!
CO: They went very nice in my risotto... Govstooge? Are you still there?

I really need a new job. But where can I go? Plus, as a civil servant of a few years' standing, I am now totally unemployable elsewhere, and stuck at my current level for the foreseeable future.

I did something terrible in a past life, and this is now the karmic consequence.

Maybe I was Hitler's marching music composer.

Normal Service Resumed

Ah-ha! I just knew it!

I couldn't possibly have been full of the joys of life forever more and have nothing to rant about!

And no, it's not the fact that those nudie paintings of our revered (ha!)yet corpulent Taoiseach put me off my breakfast this morning. That, I have to say, was pretty fecking disgusting in itself.

What really put a dampener on the recent bonhomie in the Department this morning was one of my louder colleagues coming to work in a bad humour. Now I am not judging anyone for being in bad humour. I am prone to moodiness and downright gloominess myself at times. I keep it to myself, and the only discernible difference obvious to those who work with me is that I'm quieter than normal.

Well, just think of the opposite of that. A person who is loud to begin with, coming to work with a foul temper, ranting about everything in sight- sometimes unintelligibly - and turning the volume up a few notches. I can't help but have an adverse reaction to it. Especially when it coincides with some very important work that I am engaged on.

First it starts off:
Colleague: Rant rant rant blah blah
Govstooge: Jesus. I can tell it's going to be a long day.

A few minutes later:

Colleague: Rant rant rant rant
Govstooge: I don't agree with that.
Colleague: Well I do. Rant rant rant rant rant rant.

Half an hour later:
Colleague: Rant rant rant rant
Govstooge: JESUS FUCKING CHRIST! WOULD YOU EVER SHUT THE FUCK UP AND LEAVE THE REST OF US WHO HAVE A JOB TO DO IN PEACE!!!!!!!!!
Colleague: Oops someone got on the wrong side of the bed this morning!
Govstooge: !!!?????

A short time later, my colleague's temper has moderated and it's time to offer the olive branch.

Colleague: Govstooge, want to see something funny?....Govstooge? Can you hear me? Look at this, it's funny. You'll like it.
Govstooge (not looking up): I have absolutely zero interest in what you've got on your head or shoved up your left nostril. If you've got nothing better to do I can find you some work. Lots ot it.
Colleague: Humph.

The upshot of this is that my colleague now knows that a line has been crossed by pissing the EO off to the point of shouting, and they say no more.

And I could get on with my work, silently chuckling to myself. Nothing my colleague could have done could have amused me more than scaring them into silence. And this in itself is enough to diffuse any irritation that I might have been feeling up to then.

And tomorrow, I will keep up the affronted act for a little while longer. It might just get me a cake.

Revenge is sweet.

Could you make it any more obvious?

I fucking hate nosey people.

Now, I don't mean the kind of people who stick their heads over office partitions to see who made the strange noise, or those who, when hearing a couple of colleagues having a rant in the bathrooms, decide to spend that little longer in the toilet cubicle just to hear the end of the story. If I hated those kind of people, then I would hate myself, for these are things I have done in the past (hey! It's blog fodder!).

In spite of having a blog in order to pour out my woes in cyberspace, I'm generally a very private person. I don't divulge much information to my staff or colleagues about my activities outside of work. The reason for this is that, as a manager, you are leaving yourself open to abuse if your staff know everything about your private life. I'm not saying they will all do this, but there's always one or two. I go along the lines of "I'm your manager, not your mate", and don't talk much about my personal life outside of where I watched the rugby match last Saturday and wasn't it boring! (Good result though!)

As a result of this, there are "questions" hanging over me, and some colleagues have been tring to plumb the depths of Govstooge. Lately, some of them have been getting even more audacious in their quest to discover the real dirt on me.

Like today. I announce that I am taking a couple of extra days off to lengthen my weekend. Immediately, a CO pounces.

CO: Well, Govstooge, I hope you have a nice weekend...
Govstooge: Thanks, Declan. I will.
CO: Wherever you're going.
Govstooge: It'll be nice anyway.
CO: I hope the weather's better than this, wherever you're going. Govstooge: I'll try not to let it get me down if it isn't. (Under breath) Now fuck off, will ya.
(CO gives up)

That's a harmless example. I could have just said where I was going, but the CO was being so obviously nosey, I decided not to give in and tell him.

The worst is yet to come...

Like a couple of weeks ago, on a tea break. A CO comes right out and asks me:

CO: Govstooge, you live in Ballyfuck don't you? Govstooge: Yeah.
CO: Where exactly? I passed through it at the weekend.
Govstooge: Did you now? Well, you know how there's only a couple of streets, and there's a couple of big new housing estates at each end of the village?

CO: Yeah!
Govstooge: And there's about 150 new houses between the lot of them?

CO: Yeah!
Govstooge: Well, it's one of them.
CO: Oh.

Well, I could have told the CO where the house was. But I started to have visions of my doorbell ringing on a Sunday afternoon while a pair of eyes peered through the letterbox into my hallway, and a familiar voice calling, "Hey, Govstooge, I was just passing through, and thought I'd save the cost of a phone call tomorrow morning. Can I have the morning off tomorrow?"

I really wouldn't be surprised if this happened. I might have to invest in a shotgun if it did. (Get orf my laaaand!)

And lastly, most disturbing of all, the mystery surrounding who does Govstooge spend her spare time with? Because she doesn't have any kids, and there is a noticeable absence of a wedding ring on her left hand. And we know she drinks pints because we saw her drinking several at the last work outing. Therefore, she must be .... a LESBIAN! So there's been a bit of subtle probing about this too from various corners, or at least, as subtle as incredibly nosey folk are likely to be.

For example, one day I mentioned having been to the dentist for a regular check-up.

Colleague: Do you like going to the dentist?
Govstooge: I don't mind. It helps when the dentist is easy on the eye, and mine is.
Colleague: What's her name?
Govstooge: Since when could someone who looks like Christian Bale be described as Female?

I'm not exactly what you could call a "frilly" girl. I wear t-shirts, swear in the office and like to talk about hurling. I like to go to the pub with the lads and drink pints. So maybe I fit their somewhat outdated stereotype of what a lesbian is. I don't know. I don't know any lesbians. Or, at least, I'm not aware of any in my current milieu.

The main treatment for these nosey folk is to keep them guessing; I feed them as little information about my private life as possible. I'll let them think what they want and I won't waste my already depleted energy trying to disprove it, as they have made up their minds already.

Or, alternatively, I should feed them lies. Tomorrow I will tell them all I've been promoted to Director General of FAS and can now afford that luxury pile next to J.P. McManus and will be leaving shortly. In a big helicopter. With champagne and a posh hairdresser on board. Oh, and it'll have doors. not like Martin Cullen's.

And that my novel based on life in the civil service has been accepted by a major international publisher and I've just signed a seven-figure book deal and sold the film rights.

And I know Elvis.

That'll show them, the nosey bloody gits!

The IT Crowd

I have been adopted as our section's unofficial IT person. Yes, the Department has its own IT section full of staffless EOs (Jammy Bastards!) who have all the permissions to change settings, install software etc, but why drag them all the way down to us for piddling little operational matters, when there's a spare EO floating around the section just dying for something to help with (yeah, right).

I admit, I like technology and gadgets. I've ripped my own PC apart and rebuilt it with extra bits. And it didn't explode. Not even when I spilt coffee on it. I like messing with spreadsheets and formulae and macros and Photoshop and all kinds of boring stuff. So, when new to the job, I was eager to show off my prowess and lent a hand where I could. Assuming, of course, that all my colleagues knew the basic stuff.

Most of them did.

Others are complete luddites and have managed to work in an office for several years without learning anything beyond turning the thing on.

Yes, really!

Here are some of the IT emergencies I've helped with in the recent past.

CO: Govstooge! My monitor's switched itself off!
Govstooge: You've kicked the switch under your desk off. Try not to think about auditioning for Riverdance while you're working.

CO: My spreadsheet's disappeared!
Govstooge: No it hasn't. You minimised it.

CO: How do I attach a file to an email?
Govstooge: Get onto Supplies and ask them for a set of digital staples (Jeesus!).

CO: The printer's out of paper!
Govstooge: Here's a blank A4 sheet. Go to the photocopier and make some more.

CO: I was on the Internet looking up stuff and all of a sudden this 80s pop video came up on screen!
Govstooge: You've been Rickrolled. It happens to everyone sooner or later. You'll get over it.

Still, it's nice to know I'm needed. Bless 'em.