Having worked for years in and around Westminster, offices have been either glass and metallic towers, or something resembling a Polish concrete bunker. Today I started at New Job in a building straight out of the 1950s. With manicured lawns and a vast staff car park, it felt a little like the set of Far From Heaven. Or something. However, I was disabused of any notion that men in trilby hats clutching leather briefcases would be walking purposefully through the front door. In fact all the romance of the moment was promptly stomped on when myself and other new starters were greeted by Marjory, the Facilities Manager.
She herded us into reception and explained in clipped sentences that the next 90 minutes would require our full attention. Not listening to every word, would almost certainly result in death. There was instructions on how swipe cards open various doors. Which we were all required to demonstrate to prove our understanding. The tour of the staff canteen, where she pointed out such hazards as the coffee machine from which steam could scald the skin off your face. Or the touching of the hot end of the Soup Ladle of Death which has the potential to scar you for life. This was followed by a stroll around the fire assembly points in the car park, then back up some scary stairs to the office where she explained all laptops left on desks will be removed by security, and all power sockets must be shut off at night (NB: you must never touch a power socket with wet hands). Then a demonstration of how to open a fire door. At which point Marjory looked sniffily at our footwear. Apparently, due to the fire escape from the second floor leading out to a grassy area, we are going to be hideously and permanently crippled because, and I quote, ‘we all know what happens to women who wear heeled shoes on grass!’ (which I thought was a pretty bold statement coming from a woman in purple crocs).
And then, I shit you not, there was a test.
I spent the rest of the day finding passive aggressive notes in bathrooms and at tea points. Sigh.
Comments
It is just as well that I were not there with you as, had I caught your eye, I would have snorted snot out my nose and would have had to have been escorted away, by you, in my Dangerous Heels for strong coffee and pastries, followed by sparkly drinkies of the calming, alcoholic kind.
Wait…so The Soup Ladle of Death ISN’T an urban myth? I KNEW IT!
At Dulux, we had “Jim”* the safety officer who leered at the teenaged university students on his shift & made inapropriately sexual remarks about how they handled their fire extinguishers.
He also told us solemnly (in a class setting, there was a test) that he’d devoted his life to a study of poisons. Which struck me & my friends as bizarrely gothic. Or gothically bizarre.
* Not his real name
Simon – I suspect I was thinking the same thing :)
Ms Thursday – we need to go into business together :)
Llew – have you still got Jim*’s number? I do believe we’ve found a soul mate for Marjory.*
*not their real names.
Okay, I actually burst out laughing at the ‘…we all know what happens to women who wear heeled shoes on grass!’ part. This is one of the problems that comes with having an active imagination.
What a romantic introduction to your new building. May the relationship swiftly improve.