Desolation

I had a terrible day at work, for no reason I can identify. I went through several stages or boredom and depair. In an effort to channel my feelings, I wrote the following emails to myself.

The first is a conventional blog entry.

The second is something I thought would be funny, but probably isn't (I can't be bothered to re-read this shit). I thought a diary in the style of a war journal, but describing office work, would be good. Was it? You decide.

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From:	FUNG, Paul (paul.fung@oup.com)
Sent:	07 May 2008 10:56:35
To:	paulmfung@hotmail.com

At about 11 o'clock every morning, I find myself in a stupor.


It's not necessarily a stupor derived from tiredness (I recently realised even on work nights, I get much more sleep than the average Joe, or Jane, or Crispin). It seems to come from staring at a computer screen for two hours without thinking or moving or blinking.

Once, in my last job, I went to the toilet, and there was a woman in there, washing her hands. She had obviously mistaken the Gents for the Ladies (as the urinals were somewhat hidden, this was understandable). Anyway, I was in such a work-foggied trance, that I didn't express the required amount of surprise at seeing her there. I should have paused. I should have done a double take, perhaps looking back at the door, trying to see if I'd made some mistake myself.

But I didn't do that. I was so out of it, I just vaguely acknowledged there was someone else in the room, and wondered towards the urinals.

I'm sure she found this unsettling. Being in the wrong toilet is distressing at the best of times. But seeing a seemingly unconcerned member of the opposite sex go about their business (in a metaphorical sense) must have freaked her right out. She may have thought I'd lured her there by replacing the signs on the door, like someone from a Warner Bros cartoon.

Luckily she made the first move, asking: 'isn't this the ladies?'


I, of course, said: 'I don't think so".


This suggested an element of doubt, which wasn't accurate. I knew if was the Men's toilets. But you don't want to sound too certain. I didn't wanted to sound condemnatory (is that a word?). But my glazed look can't have helped her perception of my reliability. I think she checked the door, to see if I was right.

If this was a comedy sketch, it would be revealed that it was the women's toilets after all. It would demonstrate the nature of my stupor. But unfortunately, I was right, which renders this anecdote unsatisfying at best.

So, at around 11 each day, in an attempt to stave off this malaise, I get a big mug of black coffee. After I drink it, I don't feel any more awake, but I think my imagination is energised. I start thinking of funny things, and coming up with theories about the world. I am bursting with creativity.

But I'm at work.


So I'm just looking at spreadsheets. I feel trapped in my own body. Shouting internally, demanding my release, but silent and frozen behind a fixed smile.

It seems like a bit of a waste.


I'm overflowing with optimism and see potential everywhere.


But I'm at work.


So, my only recourse is to waste time until the caffeine rush subsides. Or, I can write it all in an email to no-one. That at least looks like work. I hope people don't realise that my job doesn't really require any typing.

I'd better crack on with some spreadsheet work. Hundreds of rectangular boxes containing numbers and words and formulae. What am I doing here?

Does everybody else feel like this?


They don't seem to be typing as much as I am...

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WAR JOURNAL #10

The heat falls from the sky in heavy globs, congealing like honey, caking my breathing holes; humming, buzzing, vibrating. Life here is a junkie's nightmare. The metal and wood sags and buckles under the weight of us all. The people wince and nod, and smile baited-hook smiles, and they've gotten used to it all.

I've only been here ten days, but I can't remember anything about home. Where did we keep the sugar? I just don't know. A cupboard, I guess.

The campaign is going well, they tell me. We've won victories in SAP and ABC. And AHEAD… Whew! You shoulda been there, they say. You shoulda seen the looks on their faces, they say. And I agree. Of course I agree.

The guys in the unit are alright. They were like me once. One of them seemed like he wanted to take me under his wing, call me 'kid', split his rations. But his eyes fell. My eyes fell today. I reached to pick 'em up, but they've been stomped into the dry ground, mealy shit - a meeting place for the flies.

The boys play games, but I can tell their heart's not in it. I make a bad joke and one of them coughs. We eat like we're using a little girl's china tea set, but our hands are two clumsy and bruised to manipulate the utensils.

Excel drills at sun-up. I can't move, but stumble down towards the machines. Lucky it's downhill all the way.