Datamonkey

Today I went back to an office I'd worked at before. This was the office that had introduced me to Insanely Irritating Office Lady, Secret Bitchface and Campest Man in the World. They welcomed me back like I was Cher. It was rather awesome.

As I sat at my temporary desk, struggling with the wave of nausea washing over me, I wondered if my feelings were a result of the night before or a learned response to my environment? Although I was doing a different job and sitting somewhere novel and different the very air seemed tainted with every other time I'd turned up to work there over-tired and a little hungover. I feel as if I know of no other way to relate to that office. Except through a haze of old wine fumes. Excellent.



My job there was to put the results of a survey onto an excel spreadsheet. Or, as I'd been told earlier in the week "to collate data from a hard copy onto a soft copy - you know, excel darling? Do you know excel? Terribly eligable, thundering bore though, such a pity". Bizarrely (or not, if my previous love affair with weather graphs are anything to go by) I was totally fascinated by this. The people who filled in the survey and sent it back were mentalists, mostly. They lived in fear of internet cafes, vandals, newsagents, butchers and bookstores. They strongly opposed children's play centres. They were suspicious of hairdressers. The only thing that united these people was their collective desire for a cafe. A CAFE. They wanted no post office, no medical centre nor pharmacy. Get away with such things! The only thing they wanted in their new township was.... a cafe. A high end one, mind you. Whatever that might be. Fascinating.