Running rings around me

I had a huge, pretty embarrassing, argument in the office with a woman I used to work with many years ago. She wore a ring every day that her previous boyfriend, who had died horrifically in a motorbike accident, had given her. I had nude black and white photos – tasteful and arty – taken years ago of an ex-girlfriend. I had no idea where these photos were and hadn't looked at them for years (this is pre-digital era so they were actual physical prints). My argument was that her ring had a lot more significance than my photos: she wore the ring every day, it had emotional and sentimental resonance. Her argument was that the ring meant nothing to her, and me still having nude photos of an ex-girlfriend was outrageous. She was married, I was with someone. I told her if I was her husband, I wouldn't like her wearing that ring. You know what it is, she hasn't actually told her husband the significance of it. She was a loud Aussie and the argument got very heated, I don't know why. Jesus, you know what it is, I actually gave her a spare box of chocolates I had (long story) for her to give to her husband on Valentine's Day. Come to think of it, I designed a card for another female friend to give to her boyfriend for Valentine's Day. What am I, Cupid and stupid?

Origins of the word 'career'

The word ‘career’ has its more recent origins in ‘carer’, meaning to devote your life pointlessly for the benefit of another for no seeming advantage to yourself; to be unappreciated and underpaid. Previous to that, origins are mid-16th century; from the French carriere, the Italian carriera, and the Latin carrus; ‘wheeled vehicle' (such as a chariot or more likely, a cart); i.e. being taken for a ride; going round and round with no discernible point or destination.

Previously on Barnflakes
Inspirational demotivational business slogans
Top five office moments
The dream of basic income for everyone
Don't become a graphic designer
Dream job is an oxymoron
'Having a job makes you sick'
Don't just be yourself
Wasting time
Just a quick one
Four-day working week
Introverts vs extroverts
'In terms of' overtakes 'literally'
London Bridge Lunches
The Metros
Email étiquette
I'm literally not being funny but let me ask you a question
Aspire to be average
The Offensive Office

Inspirational demotivational business slogans

Previously on Barnflakes:
Aspire to be average
Don't just be yourself
Dream job is an oxymoron; T-1000 came up with 'Nightmare job is a tautology' but it's just the flip side of the coin – I would have thought of it eventually.
Top five office moments

Elsewhere on Barnflakes:
The BARNACLES page has been updated and 'redesigned' (i.e. font made bigger), with choice bon mots now added regularly.

The art of arranging flowers

Michael Andorfee takes the lift up to the offices at Dogma9, admiring his hair and Japanese jacket in the mirrors whilst reflecting with relish that any woman in the office would probably give him a blow job in the lift, if he asked them. He just hasn't asked yet. How to get (a)head in advertising. He walks through the office in slow motion, like a movie star or royalty. The creative guru has arrived. In the kitchen, the timid new office manager says she likes his jacket and asks if it's vintage (and not, is it new?). Thanks, Michael says, yes, yes it is vintage, with an approving lilt in his voice. I got it in Japan recently. Since Japan he's been to New York, and now he's back in the London office, partly to check the design mock-ups for a pitch for a new client.

Andorfee swans over to the design desks to view the designs on screen. Six other people suddenly materialise behind him; creatives, account handlers, groupies. Michael first looks at James's work. James has spent days on it. He looks at it for maybe five seconds, says it's too fussy, too complicated, and moves over to Alex's desk. This is more like it, he says. Alex is beaming. It actually looks like a Gap ad or a black and white Calvin Klein ad from the 1990s. With bland, meaningless text wrapped around some chiseled male figures.

Michael likes the photos… they remind him of a photographer whose name he can’t remember… Alex jumps in with “Terry Richardson?”, presumably the first, hip photographer he can think of. No, no, no, chants Andorfee. I like Terry but not what he does with kids. Cue canned laughter. There’s the implication that he’s worked with Richardson. Andorfee finds the photographer he was thinking of online and shows Alex. Ah, yes.

Michael Adorfee doesn't like the text. The text needs to be organic, he says. I can change it, enthuses Alex. Try handwritten text instead, suggests Michael. Alex immediately looks for handwriting fonts. No, no, no, intones David. Try actual handwriting. Genius! Everyone applauds. It occurs to James – whose designs were dismissed in five seconds – that Michael looks maniacal and crazy and may be an idiot. There's something of the Emperor's New Clothing about him, and not just the Japanese jacket.

Michael strolls over to his own desk and brings back a book with a spine some two inches thick: Shozo Sato's The Art of Arranging Flowers. Published in 1966, this book has acquired cult status for pretentious designers and creatives with more money than sense. To everyone else it just looks like a boring, old-fashioned book of flower arranging. Inside the book is the invoice, from IDEA, the poncy 'super' bookseller on Dover Street Market, said by Vogue to be the 'coolest publisher in the world' . The book cost Michael £125, though can be bought on eBay for about £17. It's all about context.

Michael tells Alex the book is beautiful and useful for inspiration. Alex stares at it blankly but gushes, 'Of course, brilliant, yes!' Michael asks him if he'd like to borrow it. As he hands the book to Alex – i.e. there's no option but to borrow it – there's a moment of awkward confusion as Michael also has his notebook in the same hand, and Alex thinks he's asking him if he wants to borrow his notebook. 'Well, don't you need your notebook?' Asks Alex in confusion. Not the fucking notebook, says Micheal, the book. Relieved laughter all round. In fact, every time Michael says anything, there's nods, yeses or laughs from the groupies.

Michael is regularly interviewed for creative magazines where he makes predictions such as '2017 will be the year for creativity in advertising'. Naturally he's working on a novel, a screenplay and a play but doesn't have time to finish them. His Instagram account has 15k followers but being a creative, Michael states that Instagram is 'for writers', and posts photos (rarely his) of an advert or newspaper headline or screenshot and writes besides it witty cynical commentary (self-deprecating yet superior sounding), to which his many admirers comment 'you are the best', 'bravo', 'incredible' and 'you are amazing', which certainly doesn't go to his head. Annoyingly I find myself chuckling at his clever copy, but at the same time realising it's fairly similar in tone to, say, the Dos and Don'ts in Vice magazine I also used to chuckle at. Some comments celebrate that he's 'STILL GOT IT'. Implying, one day, one day, he won't. Advertising and social media are fickle friends and he's almost the wrong side of 30.

Michael gets up and goes somewhere else, perhaps to go do some Japanese flower arranging. Like a puppy eager to please his master and still basking in that warm glow, Alex jumps up and gets everyone in the office to write a sample of their handwriting on a piece of paper. James rolls his eyes and almost imperceivably shakes his head. I walk out and presumably never go back.

Graphic Designer URGENTLY required

Fabulous, unbelievable and once in a lifetime opportunity to work in a niche but perfectly formed 360 degree omni-platform boutique agency, based in a lovely yet somehow hollow office somewhere near an area someone in Time Out said was cool… once. This cutting edge yet utterly pointless company URGENTLY require a Graphic Designer to URGENTLY start last month. Must be able to time travel and have strong design and Adobe CC skills, along with UX design, Cinema 4D, Final Cut Pro, Sketch, embroidery, nuclear physics, juggling, Microsoft Word and Excel, video, web, espionage, psychotherapy and civil engineering. A knowledge of HTML, CSS, SQL, KGB, BBC and NASA essential. A PhD in thermal dynamics is handy but not mandatory.

The job will entail designing beautiful layouts with the crispness of a Peter Saville, the roundness of a Rubens and the vigour of a Picasso. You will be designing for print, web, apps and holograms. 

Should you get an interview (though you won't, as the response will be predictably overwhelming), you will be required to do a one hour test which will involve jumping through hoops, general circus skills, and begging like a dog, plus be grilled on your entire life by a panel of five interviewers, all with less experience than yourself, then you will probably never hear back from us. You will be expected to be informed and passionate about the company which until ten minutes ago you didn't know existed. Should by a miracle you get the job you will reap the rewards of a £22,000 p.a. salary. All we require in return is your talent, soul, blood and time. Must be a team player i.e. enjoy being told what to do by people half your age.

Your portfolio will consist of only the best brands from the best agencies otherwise we don't care if you have a decade's worth of experience in publishing or some such dying industry.

Please apply elsewhere with CV, portfolio, shoe size and bank account details.

Alternative CVs

I may have worked in places as diverse as Jakarta, Khao Ping Kan, New Orleans and Sydney... and been an actor, stunt double and backing singer (yes, really), but does it count for anything? Nope. A CV is a cold, boring look at a person's life, and I've often said a person's job is the least interesting thing about them (well, hopefully it is, otherwise you're in trouble). Adult Fulfillment Assistant was probably my favourite job title (but certainly not my favourite job)... I'll leave you guessing. Here are three 'alternative' CVs – mock Victorian poster; a pastiche of XTC's Go 2 album and a mock classifieds ad – I did some years ago, but of course never sent out. I quite like them. Maybe I should have.

Tautological job titles

I used to work at a company where a work colleague* had their job title 'Writer' become 'Content Writer'. Is there any need for this extra word? Do you get the extra word in lieu of a pay rise? Can a writer write anything else but content? Similarly, there are jobs advertised for 'Visual Designer'. Again, the definition of designer is visual (unless you're a Systems Designer or something; either way Visual Designer is too vague – Fashion Designer? Graphic Designer?). Another company calls its consultants 'master experts'. But my favourite tautological job title, very rarely seen unfortunately, is Deadly Assassin.

*Deliberate tautological usage; a colleague is someone you work with.

Start of Basic Income for the Finnish

Previously my interest in Finland was limited to Moonins and the filmmaker Aki Kaurismaki. Now, however, with Finland recently becoming the first country in Europe to launch a Universal Basic Income pilot (Switzerland had a referendum on the issue last year – though it was rejected, 22% of voters were in favour of every citizen receiving £1,755 per month regardless of whether they work or not), I'm thinking of moving there. Admittedly the project is only available to two thousand unemployed folk, and they only receive £480 a month (it's called Basic for a reason), but it's a start. France and the Netherlands have run similar pilots recently, and Scotland is to run a trial over the next few years.

Being paid to do what we want to do (even if that's nothing!) in life is such an obvious and natural yet radical idea, and yet, capitalism – that most unfair and utterly pointless of systems – still bizarrely seems popular.

(The nutter eco-warrior who's threatened me a few times would earn £30K for picking up our rubbish; someone else would earn £30K for watching bad YouTube films all day; someone else might want to work in an office and would still get the £30K on top of their office earnings; someone else would travel and take photos. There may even be some people who would want to work in offices.)

(Or how about we're all paid the same amount as our age? So, if you're 18, you're paid £18,000; if you're 57, yup, you're paid £57,000. It's that simple. Why not? The wage system is so unfair. We're all doing essentially the same thing in an office (ie we're all in an office, staring at screens all day). I know people paid £120K a year, and others on £22K a year. They're essentially doing the same thing (giving up their precious time to work for a faceless corporation); they're of the same intelligence and capability as each other, yet the gulf in pay is horrific.)

Previously on Barnflakes:
The dream of Basic Income for everyone

Top five office moments

The interesting thing about office life is there's nothing remotely interesting about office life. In over four years in the same office I could count the interesting things that have happened on one hand. And here they are: 

1. The office Christmas party
In the lead up to Christmas there is magic in the air; people are more social; barriers come down; fun is to be had. By New Year, and back at work, the spell is broken. It was spoken about for months after but even by the Monday after the Friday office party just before Christmas, even the people who were there were unsure about who sat on whose lap, whose pocket her flicked gold chocolate coin had miraculously landed in, who put out whose cigarette with the fire extinguisher. 

In other words, details were hazy two days after the event, let alone eight months. Seemingly insignificant events assumed massive proportions. Who threw the first cherry tomato? Was Steve  really levitated? Did I really juggle with lemons? Details were hazy.

The evening did not bode well. For a start the company was down to thirteen members of staff. It had been double that six months ago. By the time bingo, musical chairs and musical statues had finished (I'd come second in the last two; story of my life), and Secret Santa's opened, it was 5:30pm, and several people went home on the dot. Nothing more was expected to happen. They'd been nibbles and a few drinks. No one was feeling very merry. There was eight of us left. We toyed with going to the pub, but with booze, food and music in the office, we decided to stay.

We all started drinking and dancing. The two MDs of the company (both women), another three women and three guys, including me. One guy was too cool to dance, he just leaned against a post, stroking his beard. It was down to me, Amy, Steve and Laura to do the moves. Suddenly, a cherry tomato comes flying my way – and hits me on the arm. And that signals the start of the food fight. Tomatoes, carrots, apples, oranges, lemons, scotch eggs, crisps, cup cakes and chicken legs all go flying around the office. I'm pretty sure I juggled with the lemons.

At some point, one of the MDs opened the floodgates by smoking a cigarette in the office. It felt very naughty and decadent indeed. So others followed suit, even Steve, who hadn't had a cigarette for years, though I'm sure it was him who then let off the fire extinguisher. By now we were all pretty drunk, and started playing the shopping list memory game, 'I went to the shops and bought...' Traditionally a children's game, we played the adult version with an assortment of sexual toys in the basket, only some of which I'd actually heard of. I did quite well nevertheless.

Next the MD suggested levitation, something I used to play at school, where a group of us would put a couple of fingers underneath someone lying down and miraculously lift them up as if they were light as a feather. After a few false starts (giggling), I was chosen to lie down. Each person put their fingers underneath me, and spoke the same lines: 'He's looking sick / Call an ambulance / He's looking very ill / Where's the ambulance?' Then, 'He's dead' and whoosh – up I went. Sort of.

We finished with pushing each other around in the office chairs, went to a bar about 2am, then headed home. Naturally, I got lost about 3am or so when the night bus left me stranded in the middle of nowhere. Nevertheless, it had been a good evening.

2. The big showdown*
One was a production manager (PM), the other a freelance graphic designer (FGD). They didn't quite see eye to eye: the PM would design pages; the FGD would tinker with them for days. The showdown was like what the meeting of De Niro and Pacino in the film Heat should have been like. They were working opposite each other. It was lunchtime, the office virtually empty. Something snapped in the PM; probably it was the overpriced FGD fiddling with the Quark (yes, Quark) pages yet again. The PM started shouting at the FGD about changing the pages just before press day. The FGD had no choice but to shout back, telling him his pages were rubbish and needing changing. This goes on for a bit and by now they are both standing up. Then the FGD utters the words which might actually be straight from the film Heat: "If you want me gone, just say the word. I'm gone in five minutes. I'm out of here and you'll never see me again." Four years later, he's still there and the PM isn't.

3. The dramatic resignation*
The new magazine editor was born on exactly the same day, month and year as me – we had been on earth exactly the same time, and had had different life experiences to say the least. More worryingly, a young woman we worked with – well, her mother was also exactly the same age as us. He had issues: since leaving the army he'd been listless and lacked direction. I didn't know anything about him, except he'd only just met his nine year-old son for the first time the previous year. He'd had a turbulent affair for six months with a Spanish woman (who he said was crazy) a decade previously. Ten years later she'd called him up and said he had a nine year-old son. He'd been able to meet him once, in Spain, chaperoned by his son's mother's sister. Neither the mother or the sister approved of him, and didn't want him seeing his son again.

He worked with us for a few months. He obviously wasn't enjoying it. One day, just before home time, he was getting upset about being dictated to by PR agencies; he said he couldn't work under these conditions. The managing editor informed him it was the nature of the beast. His face turned red; he slammed a load of papers down on his desk; stood up, and declared, in that case, 'I resign'. It just came out, I wasn't sure he actually meant it. He looked surprised that the words had come out of his mouth. People don't resign like that any more; I admired it. There were only a few of us in the office, but the words had been uttered, and he had to pretty much follow through with it.

4. The crazy freelancer*
She looked like what I imagine a Marxist lesbian would look like. Very intense, she could barely look at men, and sneered when I suggested she could use the men's toilet (the women's being occupied). She slammed drawers and office stationary loudly and muttered to herself. The incident happened, again, at lunchtime; the office was almost empty. She was a freelance reporter, interviewing someone on the phone for a magazine article. At some point a couple of us sitting nearby realised she was having an argument with her interviewee, and her voice got louder and more aggressive. She had our full attention by the time she was shouting at him "You will not hang up on me! You will finish the interview! Don't you dare hang up on me!" She was gone the next day.

5. I resign
I saved the best till last didn't I?

*I know what you're thinking – the office was virtually empty in all three episodes – how was I the only person to witness all three events? Just lucky I guess.

I know I moan about office life a fair bit (see below) but seriously, taking a bunch of random people; putting them in a grey box with strip lighting (ie an office); staring at a screen all day; getting them to have to work together eight hours a day, five days a week; where passive aggressive behaviour is the order of the day; and do activities that are at best pointless, at worse painful; I don't know, it just seems like a perverse joke.

Previously on Barnflakes:
The dream of basic income for everyone
Don't become a graphic designer
Wasting time
Just a quick one
Four-day working week
Introverts vs extroverts
'In terms of' overtakes 'literally'
London Bridge Lunches
The Metros
Email étiquette
I'm literally not being funny but let me ask you a question
Aspire to be average
The Offensive Office

The dream of Basic Income for everyone

Imagine a society where every citizen gets £30,000 a year, paid for by the government, just for existing. Basic Income, also known as Unconditional Basic Income and Universal Basic Income, has been an economic theory for some time but has only recently become a feasible possibility. Jeremy Corbyn has been 'looking at' the theory, and several nations and states, including Switzerland and some cities in the Netherlands, have or will hold referendums on the topic (Switzerland recently rejected the plan but has been the first country to hold a vote for it). Ontario, Canada, is also looking to initiate a pilot project for Basic Income.

The concept is not a new one: from Thomas Paine to Richard Nixon the idea has been around, in various forms, for hundreds of years. Basically, Basic Income gives every individual a livable amount of income every year without means test or work requirement, regardless of any other income, regardless of background, sex or age.

There are some big questions around it – some economical (can it financially be done? Apparently, yes), others philosophical (what would we do with our time?). The time question is the most interesting one. Would we want to work? Well, a lot of would probably not, seeing as most of the population work in minimum wage, pointless soul-destroying jobs. Hopefully some people would still want to work (!), but the idea is they'd work fewer hours, giving them more free time and enabling others to also work part-time in their jobs, creating more work.

I literally dream of a world of Basic Income, where work and financial worry isn't the sole focus of our lives; where we're not wasting eight hours a day, five days a week doing mindless activities simply to exist; where we spend more time with our families and friends; where we have time to explore and develop other interests in life – spirituality, learning to play the violin, spending six months in Morocco painting. Being free from financial worry would enable us to pursue our dreams, and though – if that dream amounts to being a rock star, writer or painter – might not amount to fame and riches, at least we'd have the time and money to explore it. Alternatively, one could just become an alcoholic and watch YouTube videos all day and night.

"Socialism!" I hear you cry! It'll never work! Okay, let me try to sell you this one instead: Capitalism. A system where only the top 5% are the winners and the gulf between rich and poor gets wider and wider; where profit comes at the expense of everything from personal feelings to the environment; where corporations rule the world and have no accountability for whatever they do, whether it's destroy the environment or pay no taxes. Surely it'll never catch on.

Previously on Barnflakes:
Wasting Time
Four-day Working Week 
Introverts vs Extroverts
Aspire to be Average
Absolutely Famous 
The Offensive Office

"Women don't understand film"

Labelled under: Controversial (perhaps)

The views expressed in this blog are not necessarily the views of the author.

I mentioned on a previous post that women don't do top ten films and music, and that men do (because we're geeky and on the Asperger's spectrum etc etc). I asked a female work colleague what her favourite film was (I also asked her what her favourite album was; she said she didn't know the title of any albums). She said her favourite film was Run all Night, a terrible Liam Neeson action thriller from last year. Another (male) colleague said dryly to her, "You may want to rethink that answer" before uttering the immortal lines: "Women don't understand film".

An outrageous statement perhaps but a quick survey in the office reveals women's favourite films to be mainstream at best, terrible at worst: Child 44 (never heard of it; oh, it's a terrible Russian thriller), Steel Magnolias, Dumb and Dumber, Love Actually (there's a great blog post about Love Actually not actually being about love at all), Pretty Woman and "anything with Russell Crowe".

Recently some women at the office have seen Batman Vs Superman (at the cinema; it's had universal terrible reviews) and 50 Shades of Grey (on DVD; the book was dire; the film is worse). Male colleagues have seen High-Rise, Anomalisa and Victoria.

Here's the thing: the average guy, who wouldn't consider himself a film buff, at least knows a potted history of film: classics such as Citizen Kane, Vertigo and The Godfather; a few foreign films; they would have heard of David Lynch, Martin Scorsese, Orson Welles. Most women wouldn't.

Mainly women don't care about film or its history (there are great female film critics – Pauline Kael and Dilys Powell spring to mind); they don't care for directors or cinematographers. It's not on their radar. They like sexy actors and a good story. They'll watch what's on. When they judge their favourite film, it's an emotional response which doesn't take in the history of cinema; usually, it'll be something they've seen last week and thought was great.

Now, I'm not completely pretentious (only a bit) and can enjoy a lighthearted film as much as anyone: recently I was in stitches watching Bridesmaids (so there; it's not even very good but I found it hilarious!). But my favourite films would be more along the lines of L'Atalante, Belle de Jour, Mean Streets, Eraserhead, Touch of Evil, Stalker...

Previously on Barnflakes:
Top 10 film critics
Sex and the City 2 Vs. Greenberg

Don't become a graphic designer

Towards the end of my foundation course at art college, one of my tutors tried to persuade me to go on and study graphic design and illustration. I was only eighteen but had a sneaking suspicion it was a boring career to follow. My actual words to him were, somewhat pretentiously, "the film industry needs me more", and at the time I was obsessed with film, and went on to make films and generally have a good time.

(He also said as a graphic designer, it's better to design something you're not interested in – the example he gave was Val Doonican album covers – in order to remain objective. Well, after years of designing car, technology, fitness and financial magazines – which have all bored me to death, I have to disagree with him.)

Years later, when reality hit and I reluctantly became a designer – literally, against my will – I was being interviewed at a design recruitment consultancy. The woman interviewing me, barely out of her teens, told me I wasn't passionate enough about my work. Well, for a start it was crap, but mainly because, well, graphic design isn't a passionate profession; it's measured and precise, and not very interesting. It's not like being a painter or filmmaker; you're not expressing yourself, you're fulfilling a brief and providing a visual solution.

Graphic design is a popular choice for young people. They all want to work in a Google-type office with bean bags and table tennis tables and create pretty pictures and imagine it's a glamorous, cool profession. But whether you're earning £18K designing catalogues or a local newspaper, or £80K at a hot design agency, either way you are essentially being told what to do and staring at a Mac screen (worse for your eyes than PCs, apparently) for eight hours a day, like I am right now when I should be designing a DPS for a financial magazine.

In short, being a designer is boring. We've (designers) got cool design books and magazines (Eye is the best), we've got blogs (design observer is good), we've got typography talks (actually quite interesting at St Bride in London), but on a day-to-day basis, and compared to other people doing completely non-skilled jobs often in the same office as the designer, it is a cheerless, underpaid, unrewarding, anhodonic profession.

I'd say graphic design is a skilled profession. It's not an art but it's a craft which takes years to learn. Sales and marketing (for example), by contract, from what I've observed, requires no skill or qualifications apart from the gift of the gab or being blonde and bubbly, yet they are lauded and praised like Gods. And paid twice as much as designers (if I owned a company, everyone, from admin assistant to CEO, would be paid exactly the same). Profit is king.

Sales guys get lunches and bonuses, commissions and conferences in Cannes and Vegas; journalists get to eat foie gras at Grade I listed houses and go to free football matches; marketing may get hampers from Fortnum & Mason. In 15 years as a designer I have literally yet to get taken out for a cup of coffee.

Previously on Barnflakes:
Top 10 graphic designers
Top ten jobs
The offensive office
In terms of moving forward
Wasting time
Aspire to be average
Absolutely famous

Graphic design work:
barnflakes.com

The mouse

I arrived at work – late – to find a cardboard box over the phone on my desk and three workmates standing round it. Apparently there was a mouse under my phone. They'd trapped it but didn't know what to do with it. One wanted to kill it. I took over the situation* and suggested placing a bin just under the edge of my desk, moving the box with the phone and the mouse and letting them both fall into the bin, holding the phone before it fell into the bin and squashed the mouse. We slid the box slowly towards the bin, grabbed the phone before it fell into the bin, and watched as the mouse shot across the room.

But we must have injured it, for there was blood by my phone – just a small amount, someone said, a 'flesh wound', and I quipped* that for a human to spill the equivalent amount of blood would equate to gallons. Anyway, there was nothing else to do. I sterilised my desk and phone and got on with my work.

After lunch I came back to the desk and looked for something in my bag – and there was the mouse, snuggled into one of the pockets, not moving. Everyone gathered round (except the girls – seriously, I'm not being sexist or stereotypical – but they are all absolutely petrified of mice) and peered in. It was alive – frightened and wounded, but alive. A colleague and I took the mouse outside, unsure of where to put it. We put it by a bush in the courtyard. My colleague went back upstairs. I stayed to watch it. Poor thing, it hobbled around, then started limping into the middle of the courtyard, where people are always walking. Someone did almost step on him and I nearly had to push him aside: "Look out for the mouse!" I exclaimed. The mouse was almost the same colour as the cobblestones in the courtyard. I texted my colleague, told him to bring down some cake (there's always cake in the office).

I put my hands down in front of the mouse, and it crawled onto them. I stroked it. It was so cute – little feet, little whiskers, little nose. It looked like it had little hope of survival. My colleague came down with cake and we set it down near a hole in one of the adjacent buildings. And left it to it – what else could we do? I was tempted to take it home, but was going out that evening and didn't want it squashed in my coat or bag. I went back down half an hour later – the cake and the mouse were gone, hopefully a good sign.

*Like in my dreams and fantasies, in my stories too I'm always the one who takes control of the situation and provides the jokes – though in this case, true.

In terms of moving forward

"Choose a job you love and you'll never have to work a day in your life."
– Confucius

"How the hell could a man enjoy being awakened at 6.30am by an alarm clock, leap out of bed, dress... and fight traffic to get to a place where essentially you make lots of money for somebody else and were asked to be grateful for the opportunity to do so?"
– Charles Bukowski

I've mentioned the crazy, fast-moving office environment previously (I know, more than once); how office jargon changes on such a regular basis, it's hard to keep track of the hackneyed buzz phrases and clichéd idioms. Last year it was literally all about 'in terms of' and 'literally'.

But 'literally' has, literally, been tied up, shoved into a van in a grey sack weighed down with bricks and chucked into South End pier. Literally. Tellingly, the 'in terms of' sales guy has left, and the phrase died almost instantly. In its place, thanks to the new marketing girl, ground-breaking new phrases were ushered in, and took over the office like ebola within a matter of days: 'moving forwards', 'happy with that' and 'keen to catch up' (notice lack of pronoun text speak with the latter two).

Old ones were still heard from time to time: 'touching base' even made an appearance late on a Monday afternoon. 'Historically' and 'Oh right' reared their ugly heads from time to time. I can't be sure if I really did hear this smorgasbord of office speak in the same sentence: 'In terms of moving forward I'm literally happy with that', but I like to think that I did. Like Sherlock Holmes never actually uttering 'Elemenary, my dear Watson', it feels like he should have.

Previously on Barnflakes:
Wasting time
Just a quick one
Four-day working week
Introverts vs extroverts
'In terms of' overtakes 'literally'
London Bridge Lunches
The Metros
Email étiquette
I'm literally not being funny but let me ask you a question
The Offensive Office

Dream Job Is An Oxymoron

More Barnacles here.

Wasting Time

'We'd be amazing if we learnt useful things.'
– Comment at work from Admin Assistant

During World War Two, the test to become a code breaker at Bletchley Park was completing The Times crossword and playing chess (and, okay, presumably hailing from Oxbridge). Nowadays a similar job would involve a degree in maths and years of experience. The 1960s heralded a time of apparently being able to walk into any job. The TV series Faking It demonstrated that actually anyone can do anything (apart from a handful of occupations that require years of training: lawyer, doctor, etc), with a bit of training and the right connections.

I had a drunken argument with a random man about this last Friday night: I believe from school we are stifled into accepting our role in life, and this continues into work (though we really should be told to make the most of our school days – oh, days of actually learning stuff; being able to fight someone you didn't like; endless holidays. Saying school is preparation for work is a slight fib – prison would be more a more apt description). Most jobs tend to under utilise people, belittle them, keep them in their place, put them down, crush their ambitions and possibilities.

What if your calling was playing the cello or surfing or being a photographer or a paleontologist or an installation artist but you just never got around to it (what if you were born in Iran or the Congo)? What if you never found your calling? Chances are you probably didn't and won't, and you'll settle for something mediocre: you'll be working in an office, wondering for years if there's more to life than this. Then it dawning upon you that there isn't. Those who realise their vocation from an early age are very lucky; the rest of us just stumble along blind.

We waste most of our passion, energy and time on things that are completely pointless, mostly work-related (but also TV and football-related). But imagine, say, serial killers could be more constructive as paid assassins or soldiers. Jilted ex-lovers who are good at stalking their ex-partners online could become researchers or spies. Hackers, fraudsters and con artists would do well in (legal) buisiness. I recently saw the aggression and passion of football fans on the way to a Millwall vs Leeds match. All that hate against the opposite team, if only it was used to do some good. Their chanting could be singing in a church choir instead. Something negative and aggressive could become positive and joyful. The same with the legions of office workers and their futile existences. They could actually transfer their skills and do something useful with their lives.

Previously on Barnflakes:
Four-day working week
Absolutely Famous
Aspire to be Average

Just a quick one

No, unfortunately not the euphemism for a quick shag, but more of the office speak that spreads like a virus. I've mentioned previously (ironically) about the fast-paced office environment, reminiscent of a doctor's waiting room, morgue or (at other times) a children's playground. The latest buzz phrase is a 'quick question' or 'quick one', ie a quick word. Nothing's about leisure; there's no: 'how about a six hour chat?' It's all about the quick one. It might not even be quick: it's probably the same length as a normal size question or chat. But the advanced warning – 'a quick one' – informs the recipient it won't take up much of their valued time. Invariably, the quick one ends up becoming a medium or even long one, but the thought is there I guess.

Also trending this month: clearing throats, squeaking chairs and clanging keyboards.

How to work a four day week

Following on from a recent post regarding the four day working week, is it actually possible to have a full time job but just work a four day week every week for a year using annual leave (the word holiday sounds too frivilous to use nowadays in the serious office environment; after all, it won't be a holiday per se; you'll have your phone on the beach and check work emails every day), Bank Holidays (an official term so the word is permitted), and the odd sickie? In short, probably not, but let's give it a try anyway.

Let's say you get 25 days annual leave a year (I'm feeling generous) – that's automatically half a year of four days, but still a way to go. There are eight Bank Holidays, including Easter, Christmas, Boxing Day and New Year (let's be equally generous and pretend Christmas Day and Boxing Day fall on different weeks), so that's 33 weeks in total taken care of. But still leaves 19. Hmm, now it gets tricky. You could probably get away with five days of paid sick leave. Let's chuck in the odd funeral and hope your company believes in compassionate leave. At best, that makes ten weeks remaining. Hmm, very tricky now. The only option is just not turning up for work one day a week (for ten weeks) and hope nobody notices.

'In terms of' overtakes 'literally'

In the fast moving, exciting, hectic office environment, clichéd office jargon doesn't hang around for long and fester (actually, it spreads like wild fire or a virus and then hangs around for years). Last year, literally, everyone was saying the word 'literally' in every sentence. That was so last year. This year, everyone is saying 'in terms of'. Every. Single. Sentence. Literally. It can be 'in terms of' anything at all ('in terms of... design / sales / Tuesday / opportunity / lunch / information / time*), literally, and it literally means absolutely nothing. And started off quite amusing (I wondered if it was a running conspiratorial joke), then got very annoying. People in the office have no idea whatsoever why they've suddenly started saying it. It's just happened. And then spread. At first there was one person, a sales guy, who started saying it. The following week, another person joined him. Then another. And another. And another. In terms of 'in terms of', everyone's at it. Literally.

*Actual 'in terms of' heard today

Previously on Barnflakes:
Four day working week
I'm literally not being funny but let me ask you a question
Email etiquetté
The offensive office

Four-day working week

Nothing comes close to that feeling of warm balmy Mediterranean evenings near the coast, humid but with a faint cool breeze, crickets chirping in the distance, small green geckos scattering on the hot ground, the sun setting slowly, a warm glow to everyone, loved ones holding hands, the laughter of children, the smell of suntan lotion and the scent of flowers.

This scene is perhaps, if I'm lucky, one week of a year in my life. The rest of the time it's staring at a computer screen all day in a grey office surrounded by people I don't want to be with or listen to. My loved ones are hundreds of miles away. My thoughts are usually hundreds of miles away (they only have my body and my time).

Two hundred and forty four days a year are spent in the grey office in order to spend a week (at most) in the balmy Mediterranean country with loved ones (just as eight hours a day are spent with completely apathetic ones in order to spend three hours – completely knackered – in the evening with loved ones). In years to come, the five-day working week will be looked on in the same way as we now look at slavery and public hanging  – ie as a violation of human rights.

The recent flurry of Bank Holiday Mondays and Easter break has us getting used to the concept of the four day week. If I was running for Prime Minister, I would simply call my party The 4-day Week Party and immediately get voted in as PM. It's pretty much that simple (I'd keep most other policies the same; we don't give a shit about them anyway. Well, saying that, I'd do my best to ban cars, modern R&B, football and carrier bags): but my main policy, my only policy, would be to introduce the four-day working week. All we do is live for the weekend and holidays – Monday to Friday feels like prison, with weekends let off for good behaviour. Polls have shown the average office worker only spends three days a week actually working – the other two days are spend in banter, browsing the internet etc, so let's stop wasting pointless time and actually try to get our lives back.

The Guardian agrees.

Previously on Barnflakes:
Introverts vs extroverts
The offensive office