What do you do?

I've just read a throroughly depressing article about office work. It was analysis of how peoples' attitudes to their jobs have changed due to the recession, and a general examination of the world of work.

It wasn't a good day to read it. I've been feeling generally disillusioned, and this was almost enough to tip me over the mundane edge into an abyss of slight emotion.

Towards the end, there's a piece by Alain de Botton attempting to examine work in a vaguely wanky and philosophical way. It was interesting and pretentious - an attempt to find beauty in the mundane. I suppose that's what all deep-thinking is about. It's poetry: extrapolating the holy from the ordinary. And whilst I think it's a noble exercise, it's still depressing.

I don't want to have to make do with the mundane. I don't want to engage in a twisted thought-experiment to get pleasure from my life. It seems like giving up. I don't want to placate the grey gods of monotonous employment.

It all comes down to my answer to that most painful of questions: what do you do?

If I acquiesce to Monsieur de Botton's point of view, I have to answer: "I work in an office. It's not so bad..."

I don't want to admit that first part, even though it's true. I suppose I feel that if I do admit it, I'm doomed. I'm like Neville Chamberlain, or a battered wife, cheerfully greeting Hell by rolling my eyes.

In the back of my mind, there's a vital need to believe that this is just a job, and a way to stay alive, but that my real life lies elsewhere. Like in stand-up comedy. Or this blog. But it's getting more and more difficult to convince myself.

What do you do?

I really liked being a temp for that very reason. "I'm a temp" doesn't convey and particular conception of identity. It's just what you do for money. The temporariness is the best part. You're not playing by the rules, not part of the system. A loose cannon! What's that, boss man? No paid sick leave? Up yours! I march to the beat of my own drum (or would, if I could afford the drumsticks)!

As soon as you sign a contract for a permanent job, you've become a grown-up. And grown-ups don't have time to lie in sunny parks, or watch DVD commentaries, or come up with cartoon characters. They're too busy worrying about dental bills and MOTs.

What do you do?

There's a good bit in The Armando Iannucci Shows where he wonders why we always answer that question with our job title, rather than "I eat cold spring rolls in front of repeats of Buffy the Vampire Slayer".

I suppose the question is really:

What do you do for the majority of your time?

And the answer is: I'm tired.

For the majority of the time I'm tired. I'm tired before work, I'm tired during work, I'm tired after work.

That's what I do. I yawn and rub my eyes.

I hope this doesn't sound too miserable. The article is supposed to find virtue in the whole enterprise, and to talk about how it's not about work, but all the other little things surrounding it.

But I can't help but feel aggrieved that I even read the article and identified with it so much. I wish I had no idea about office life. But I know exactly what they're talking about.

Because that's what I do.