That sort of thing.įor some reason, though, the office always has one middle-to-upper manager who is just phenomenally matey with them both – finger points, breezing through the security gate without showing a pass, has almost definitely shagged someone after-hours in one of the meeting rooms – and in that relationship, there is power. I don't know why the surly guard has a phone the size of a Bible that says "NAPEAIO" on it, but he does, that's the rule.Īnyway, this Good Cop–Bad Cop dynamic is fine for day-to-day life, but bad for when you want to get literally anything done, like sign a guest in without them having to go through a complex form-filling process, or you need to enter the office even one second after office hours ("Why? Who are you?"), or when you need to get a parcel – a parcel that is clearly marked and you can see it behind the desk I can just get the parcel, mate, I can see it right there – but they tell you your parcel hasn't arrived yet. Under-promote me at your peril.īEING REALLY, REALLY CHUMMY WITH THE SECURITY GUARD ON FRONT DESKĮvery place I've ever worked has this weird (sexual?) dynamic of a security guard duo on the front desk, and that is: one extremely matey guy who is just happy to be doing a job that mostly involves eight hours of wearing a hat and leaning on a desk, and one extremely pissed off dude who is always annoyed, and always for some reason has a really massive mobile phone, in an equally large phone case, of a make and model you have never even heard of, let alone seen. It tells your bosses: I will die at this desk if I have to, for I have snacks and biscuits. It tells the colleagues around you: I made this desk more comfortable for myself because I spend so much time here. If you have anything more than your computer on your desk, you are fundamentally taking your job too seriously – you should be able, ideally, to walk away from your job at lunchtime and never go back, and lose absolutely nothing in the collateral damage – and for that reason, having a desk pile is an absolute flex of power. Then you upgrade fully to intricate tea-and-coffee guy: you've got two boxes of herbal tea and one special thing of teabags nobody is allowed to steal you've got your own mug that you keep, clean and immaculate, locked in the top drawer of your desk, so it doesn't get mixed in with the general wash you've got a whole thing of agave syrup you have a big Tupperware tub with three types of biscuit. ![]() ![]() But it starts with a wrist-rest and just moves from there: suddenly you have a plastic in-tray despite working in a paperless office, and you have a special succulent plant that needs to be diligently watered during your week off in August, and you have various gewgaws and trinkets on your desk – a string of bunting left over from the World Cup, a framed photo-booth strip of you half-drunk and wrapped in a feather boa from the office Christmas party, three Amazon parcels you've never actually bothered to take home, &c. Like: all you really need on your desk is a computer, a keyboard, maybe a tub of chewing gum for the 4PM lull. Office hierarchies are delicate things governed by unwritten, spiderweb-like rules, at once fragile and steel-strong, and one of those rules seems to be: there is a direct relationship between the ominous presence of the pile of shit on your desk, and your self-perceived importance to the company.
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