I work in a very high-profile office block in London. Everyone knows it by sight, and it's not exactly an old building. And yet, it's one of the most uncomfortable environments I've every worked in.
The plumbing is hopeless for a kick-off. The toilets are getting constantly blocked as a consequence. Now, I appreciate it's a high-rise, and one shouldn't take for granted what a challenging engineering undertaking it is to provide showers and karzeys that high up. But, as Mrs O pointed out when I was acting the apologist for the bogs once, "It's not the first skyscraper ever built, is it?". Quite so. They did have a wealth of empirical data to draw on in order to get the job right this time.
Also, the facking heating is useless. It has just two settings: "engine room of Mississippi paddle steamer" or "igloo". So when someone phones up to remonstrate, they simply flick from one extreme to another. They have one of those big brass things you see on the bridges of war ships that ring when you change course. I hate complaining - I really do - but something needs to give. As I type, it's like a fucking greenhouse in here. It's so soporific that jobbing bureaucracy is impossible, thereby defeating the object of the office in the first place.
I need to get out. Permanently. I need to get back to nature, to work with my hands...like any self-respecting midlife crisisee. This time next year I'll probably be a lumberjack.
Form an orderly queue, laydeez.
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