Office Days

Transitioning from student lifestyle to office slavery has been one of the defining changes brought about by my move to town. One thing I didn’t realise about work beforehand was that you have to be there ALL DAY. As finalists, we moaned about the hours spent in the library, but at any time, we could swan off and take a break, mooch around the shops, nap under the duvet or listen to some music. In fact, we could even listen to music in the library if we remembered to bring our earphones. Not being able to leave the office at will was, at first, strangely disconcerting. What if I got bored? Or if it was sunny outside? Or I needed to go to the shops? By 4.30pm, my legs would be twitching and I would be itching to bust out of the open-plan wasteland.

But working in the kind of firm where the partners frown at you if you laugh out loud, or if you stop to speak to someone about something other than work, or if you actually take a lunch hour instead of slurping down lukewarm soup over an unfinished document and answering your phone with a mouth full of avocado salad, it soon became apparent that leaving on time was also something that displeased the greater powers. So although I initially could scarcely make it through to 5.30, before long I was being reminded I could be merrily beavering away at my desk till at least seven.

At a communications meeting, a partner shared some observations concerning associate demeanour: “I walk through the office at 8am and no-one is there.” That’s because our contracts say we start at 9am. “And when I’m there at night, everyone has gone home.” And that’s because we finish at 5.30pm. Only we don’t: we ignore the contract and make out like we were being so busy and industrious that we didn’t even notice the time, whereas surely everyone is counting down the hours, minutes and moments since lunch. During periods of trying to improve my image, I would stay and see what I was missing. Not a lot really. I just lost a great part of my evening, but felt smug about every single person I outstayed. Soon enough, I was back on my marks for the striking of half past five and into the first bend on the route home before you could say ‘show hours’.

Other cardinal sins which drew the disapproval of the partners included, as I have mentioned, talking to colleagues, or at least indulging in conversation that was not strictly corporate. One way of deterring this seemed to be the dividers that separated most desks. Despite being open plan, most worker ants were separated from those around them by deep blue dividing walls that were just tall enough that you could only see the top tufts of hair of your neighbours. So in order to pursue an audible chat, you are forced to perform the ‘meerkat’ manoeuvre: standing up and surveying for predators, or, in other words, meddling partners. Should the coast be clear, you could then lean over and talk away. Or you could, as I eventually learned to, be as brazen as you like, and blether with the brethren till blue in the face, aware the partners were noting your crime, but also unbothered.

As it turned out, the dividers on one occasion turned out to be to my advantage. Whilst trying to make the most of things and salvage my reputation on my desk, or maybe because everyone else was busy, I was lunching alone at my computer. Fair enough, I was reading papers online, but at least I was projecting the corporate image so cherished by the big cheeses. On reaching my yoghurt course, I was relieved to have removed the lid without spraying myself in strawberry-flavoured calcium-rich low-fat gloop. Spoon in one hand and pot in the other, I was filling my face when my resting elbow slipped off the desk, shaking my forearm violently and causing me to launch yoghurt in a number of directions. I’m not sure how it looked because one of the first escaping parts struck me in my eye. The rest went in my hair and over my absent colleague’s work on her desk. Sat there, torn between panicking that yoghurt and contact lens were mingling together and endangering my sight and worrying that someone would see me with a face full of Muller light, I was rendered inert for several moments. Luckily, the office had mainly emptied for sandwich runs, but my saving grace was committing my calamity behind my lofty dividers. I was able to have a quick wipe with an important document before slinking out to the lavatories to remove the rest. I was spared embarrassment, but would still rather the dividers had been absent, seeing as I soon after emailed numerous friends to share the rather ridiculous story that I had managed to spill yoghurt in my eye.