Wednesday, 18 January 2012


I come to work to partake in something akin to being an adult. This is not always the case, just mostly.

I spend time with Grace (now 17 months) at home playing, reading, drawing, pandering to any urge I have to be childish. This is not always the case either – something Grace pops her hands on her hips and shrugs. She KNOWS I am peculiar at times. Mostly, sometimes often.

My work colleagues on the other hand, are kids at work. ALL THE TIME.

Yes, they might be absolutely fab at keeping me busy and entertained during what can sometimes present itself as a bloody dull job. But give me a break for dickens sake. I’m losing my grip on reality!!

Don’t get me wrong, I love my job and for every dull-as-dishwater process there is a hidden gem of Razamataz that wriggles out of the woodwork to make things ok. Like for instance, my little trip out to Istanbul in March (good) to attend a two day summit on business resiliency and disaster planning (bad). Peaks and troughs, every job has them. Overall I love it. But it’s these KIDS AT WORK getting on my tits, pardon my French.

I’ll start with Donna…. hard work. She works hard at looking busy when really she wants a fit Fireman to whisk her away to Disney heaven on a motorbike made for three so she can take her thug of a long-suffering husband with her. (Sorry Rick, you know it’s true). I love her because she makes me smile when the chips are down and I know we can always take the mickey out of each other without causing offence. Like the time I said her 80s perm (in 2011) made her look like the Lion from the Wizard of Oz…. “pud em uuuuuuup”. (I got a quiet one in the office that day).

There’s Ali and Jo too. The tag team to help me wind Donna up. Jo’s pretty quiet as she’s only been with us a few months and is still trying to fathom us out. I’ve know Ali for years, since the beginning. Not of all time, but since the beginning of this business ship we find ourselves floating on. It’s choppy waters and the commonness of suffering the same journey holds water like no other relationship might.

I can’t really go into Queenie much, she sits in the posh seats down the other end of the office and she has an aura about her. I spend my time equally between awe and awe. Remarkably, Queenie pulls of Yummy Mummy, The Only Way is Essex (in Yorkshire) with The Apprentice (Karen, not Nick or Lord Sugar) simultaneously. Think marathon runner meets catwalk with calculator. (School run excepted, although I hear she did fakebake and wax before going into labour for baby number 2). R.E.S.P.E.C.T.

The boys smell and as such I wont go into them here, today they’ve been pretty quiet getting on with work and keeping out of ‘girls stuff’ from our end of the office. They think they’re in posh seats, hobnobbing with the GM and Queenie. They’re wrong. They’re under a supervision order and are kept tabs on constantly. Everyone knows you can’t trust boys, particularly Kevin (the Second) and Jim. Fools.

Sheli, bless her, is left on the sidelines in the other office now. The only daily reminder I work in the same building as her is the ringing in my ears when she bellows at me in her cryptic Scottish tongue. Oh, and the little Happyland character that IS my mate Gobbie Dobbie. Neck scarf, handbag, curls. Check. Boyfriend with curls. Check. Dog. Check. Car. Check. Love it.

And that brings me nicely back to the point of this post. KIDS AT WORK. Do you work with grown-ups? I don’t. And Grace knows it. She waits until I'm weakened by the working day, tests the water by resisting the need to sit in the highchair for dinner, then pulls out her arsenal as if to say 'let battle commence'. Easy baby? Yes. Smart baby? Hell yes. I'm not sure what's more of a challenge. A toddler pulling the punches and calling the shots, or an office full of grown-ups fighting over the winning points in a pub-quiz written for under 14's. I'll sleep on it.

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