Tales from the Staff Room - Vol. 1

It's a Friday morning. The amicably sized staff room is littered with binders, highlighters and there is a tinge of fatigue in the air. Some kind soul has left a Soreen Cake and a Jamaican Ginger Cake next to the coffee and sugar, with a knife and sign that reads:

 

" A few days in. Resolutions already broken. Eat away colleagues". 

Woman 1: I so want to eat some, but I'll absolutely, KILL myself afterwards.

Woman 2: Don't eat it!

Woman 1: (eyes wide with delight, smiling at the possible goodness that is embedded in a slice of Jamaican Ginger Cake).

Woman 2: Don't do it! One slice and it's a slippery slope downhill after that. I have a slight addiction...

Woman 1: (riddled with bewilderment) Addiction?

Woman 2: Yeah, I love cake. Simple. I remember craving a slice of some cake or another and before I knew it, I had had one slice, two slice, then all that remained was the packaging and a slight feeling of shame.

Three things I learnt this week.

1) Unified failure often resembles unified success.

2) A breakfast consisting of mouthwash and a crumpled corner of the morning's 'Metro' newspaper, is not the best way to start your day.

2) Anxiety is the body's natural laxative.

Ode to Santa

(inspired by Mr Hanlon and his bold assertion, that as of December 26th, Mr Clause was a recipient of job-seekers allowance).

Santa, Santa, Santa

High on sugar,

Low on banter.

You work one, measly day,

Of one, important week,

The rest o’ the year,

You sit back 

And majestically, raise your feet.

How grand it must be,

To have your job,

If you were a mere proletariat,

You would be labelled,

A slob.

The tabloids would curse

Your state funded palace in Lapland,

And Mrs Clause,

Would do all the chores,

And buy your meals from Iceland.

Oh Santa, Santa, Santa,

How I envy thee,

Your sweatshop tactics

And burglar-esque antics,

Make you the King of Christmas Eve.

Santa, Santa, Santa,

Jovial elder from afar,

With the exception of J. Christ,

You are truly

December’s Superstar.

Humbling in the name of January.

Once the excesses of a bloated fortnight in late December drift into yesterday, the cold and treacherous January arrives. With its annual increments in public transport costs and weighty resolutions, it is a time that sprinkles timidity atop even the strongest of characters.

Places of work and public carriages overflow with grimace and despair, and even the youth appear aged, with their talks of former triumphs during the December break and it is amidst such unified melancholy, that January humbles us all.

The Direct Debits we so casually played fool to have been taken, leaving most of us chasing zero in the pursuit of nullifying our newly acquired ‘DR’ status.

The long haul until payday means that our usual standard of existence is diminished, as our early seasonal pay is now in the hands of the doe-eyed lasses that man the checkouts in department stores up and down the country.

Yes, January is the month most humbling indeed.

Resolutions.

(written on December 29th 2010)

As the year draws to a close, many peoples minds and social networking statuses will be filled with resolutions and grandiose moxie in the pursuit of being a better them.

I admire those people. Not because they are supreme humans who try to master themselves but because they do not mind, in fact they encourage public humiliation.

Be like me.

Take note of all their resolutions. Jot down their declared convictions to cook better, save more, up their Zumba class appearances, then round about March, once the reality of change, routine and their innate ability to stick at nothing kicks in, plaster said manifestos on mountainous Post-It notes and remind them of their failings.

I jest. It's a fantastic thing to want to change and even more fantastical act when a person embarks on the road to change and refuses to divert.

Best of luck to you all.