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Dreadful Nonsense

"I've read your blog. it's really funny. you should write a column." - Jon Ronson

I still haven’t told anyone at work (other than my boss, and one other girl in my office, who I’ll call Bell, because that’s quite obviously not her name) that I’ve quit. The long I leave it, the more it seems like a dirty little secret that I’m keeping to myself, for the shame of it would bring disrepute to my family. But really, the reason I’ve not let slip yet is because of the almighty slagging off I’ll receive.

I love the ridiculous job I’m doing at the moment, something I was at pains to emphasise to the recruitment agency who called me today to ask why I was going. Apparently, moving to London for the sheer heck of it doesn’t seem like a good enough reason to the agency, who were so utterly convinced I was experiencing bullying in the work place that they asked me not twice but three times in a very direct manner.

One of the many reasons I adore my ridiculous job, besides the fact that I only work for five hours, and on a good day up to three of them will involve doing absolutely no work at all, is because the girls that I work with in my office are, to a lady, the nicest bunch of crazed nut jobs I’ve ever been lucky enough to share an office space with.

There we’ll sit on a slow day, all of us with our chairs swung around to face each other and the centre of the room, and we’ll discuss how terrible each person is looking, how little work each individual does, how awful their computer and typing skills, how unprofessional their phone manner. We’ll talk about how we’re going to get each other sacked, the sexual favours we’re each performing on our respective bosses, and occasionally even just the unpleasant odours rising from each desk caused, it needn’t be pointed out, by the poor hygiene standards of each one of us.

Each office has their share of people who think they’re just the darn tootin’ craziest wacko you’re ever going to meet, and each office seems to recruit people specifically for this job, those that walk in to a room with a poor joke already thought through, will stand by the printer, deliver said joke, and then leave the room again to the sound of the damp thump as said joke falls unsuccessfully to the floor, to the embarrassment of all who heard it. In our office, the office in which I spend a good two hours a night downloading and reading Dr Who fan fiction, we ignore those people and make our own inappropriate comments to each other, and then swing our chairs back round when someone else enters the room as if the conversation never happened.

I don’t want to tell these ladies I’m leaving. The abuse will, I know this for a fact, then centre entirely on me for the duration of the time I’ve got left there. And that would be the most depressing thing ever. It’s very rare to find people you can insult on a daily basis who aren’t blood relatives, and who will keep coming back for more.

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