Office Life

When the wind blows and the rain chops the mood is somewhat drab. The clouds race overhead as quickly as one’s thought of seeing the sun this day. The sky has disappeared, it has left the world as it cannot stand the depression the rain patters down onto the ground. Steadily and without rhythm the rain falls and seeps in building cracks, gaps in paving, and the bones of citizens just, for the first time, wanting to reach the dry place they call their dreaded work, where the chattering voices bob along the air every so often when someone dares to speak, and the aircon rumbles on cooling the offices on a day that is already cool enough. The keys go tackatackatack…tacktackatack, over and over like a monotonous nagging mother-in-law that one soon learns to exile to the recesses of their mind.

Early they arrive but no one notices, late they leave but no recognition is made. Late they arrive and they are politely reminded that their start time has passed and they must recover the time elsewhere and still they must be thankful for the opportunity to earn bucket-loads of currency for a boss that they will neither meet nor see other than during the Christmas party when they will be too intoxicated in which to remember them.

This is the thankless career life of an office habitant on a day that plagues England for most of the year, and here it is to stay.