|Sign of the times|
I was just in the middle of a dream…
That’s how my day starts. I roll out of bed, stumble to the bathroom for 3S, and then head to the kitchenette for wheaties. Then I get dressed for work, remembering to brush my teeth before tying my tie.
I live on the top floor of a tower block, so I take the lift about 37 floors to ground, emerge from the building, cross the road, and head up six floors to my office.
Six forty-five, and I start to drive my desk, my computer, and push paper around. This is the frustrating bit. Everything I write is in some way inadequate, unacceptable, incomplete, or just plain wrong. It all gets submitted to the Circumlocution Office, where teams of incompetents find ingenious ways to pick fault. If possible, and it’s always very possible indeed, the required document changes are in direct contradiction to requirements of other Departments in the said Circumlocution Office. After three weeks, my submittal will be back on my desk for rewriting. Again.
He works from nine to five, and then…
By around 6pm I have generally had enough, so I head down six floors, cross the road, and ascend 37 floors to my tiny, expensive concrete cube in the sky. I get changed, cook a meal, wash up, and stare at a screen until about 9pm. Then bed.
I repeat this six times a week.
And that’s my life. It is destroying me.