Of Human Bondage
Like so many of us in the Western world, I have spent most of my working life in offices. The accepted wisdom is that an office is a fascinating microcosm of humanity and, yes, there is some truth in this. I once worked in a law firm that could not have appeared more demure but for its Asian divisions. It seemed that whenever some tweedy old partner was transferred to, say, Shanghai, he would go all White Mischief, his life becoming one long round of drinking Gin Slings in the humidity and engaging in sexual practices that would have frightened even Wallis Simpson. Now, that is what I call fascinating. However, human interaction in offices is usually the source of the most terrible ennui known to man.
There is the matter of colleagues making the same remarks all the time. In one place I worked, the air conditioning in my office was rather noisy. I didn’t mind this, as it sounded, to me, a little like a plane taking off, and so would put me in mind of airports and holidays. However, every person who came in would, soon after entering, suddenly stop talking, listen as theatrically as if they were playing Madame Arcati in a revival of Blithe Spirit and then say, ‘What’s that? Oh, it’s your air conditioner! It’s noisy, isn’t it?’ Well, yes, it is, but perhaps its racket will disguise the sound of me killing you and then myself.
As well, it has always been my misfortune to be one of those people whom their co-workers regard as a character, and not even because I am in any way interesting. I’ve known colleagues to find it worthy of endless hilarity that I tend to accumulate a lot of paper and that I like to keep pairs of shoes under my desk. I have had to become accustomed, too, to the fact, that should I, for example, forget my security pass, the person who lets me into the building will invariably be one of those who will see this zany occurrence as yet more proof of what a character I am.
Back in 2000, I had no curiosity at all about the Sydney Olympics, but it happened to be the case that my colleagues did, and were always sprinting off to the television in the boardroom to watch someone I’d never heard of do something I didn’t understand. These people found my lack of interest in the Olympics tediously deserving of comment, as well as absolute proof of my eccentricity. I was forcibly reminded of the famous case of Christchurch teen murderers Pauline Parker and Juliet Hulme, and how one of the details presented as evidence of their criminal insanity was that they hadn’t been one of those who went to see Queen Elizabeth when she visited New Zealand in 1954.
The other side of the office-character coin is those personnel who pride themselves on being characters. They might, for instance, enjoy having a range of stuffed animals on their desk and manipulating their mouths to make it look as though the creatures are talking to you, when all you require from them is an answer to a simple question. A common example of the proud office character is the character tea lady, who will be guaranteed to bestow on you an irritating and inaccurate nickname, and to engage someone in bantering conversation just when you a. have to tell the person something urgently or b. have been having a train of thought that the banter has interrupted and that will never be recaptured.
The thing is, if colleagues want to think that there’s anything remarkable about me, far more worthy of comment is my unpleasant tendency to be violently suspicious of anyone new in my workplaces, which I have always hoped is merely some Darwinian aspect of human nature over which I have no control. I remember in 1995 hating a new member of staff so much that for weeks I felt angry whenever I saw him, and also spent a lot of time outside work thinking how much I hated him. This was despite the fact that I had never exchanged a single word with him and now can’t remember anything about him except that he was bald.
So, yes, working in an office can cause a person almost to be eaten alive with feelings of frustration and loathing. On the other hand, I’ve never understood those who say that they could never work in one, carrying on like they’re Emily Brontë pining for the moors. What else is there but an office, if, like me, you don’t want to be out in the fresh air? Also, if you work in a company that’s big enough, you will, hopefully, be supplied with free fruit and biscuits. Good luck getting that in a national park.
Avril Rolfe is a Melbourne-based writer.
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