Office banshee

What is it about alarms nowadays? They hardly ever evoke alarm, more likely to raise irritation. There's the neighbour's house alarm which seems to be set off by your average household fly. Then there's the car alarm somewhere down the road which leads one to fantasise about baseball bats and ear muffs at 4.32 in the morning.

Today, at the precise moment I settled my cup of tea down next to the mouse, an electronic alarm sounded. It starts nearly apologetically and then builds up to a crescendo, all the while robotically advocating that we should evacuate the building.

I should explain I wasn't with the cat at home, where the smoke alarms have been moved to window sills due to offensive tones at the hint of a smell of a burnt crumb. They're often  picked up and shaken out the window - desperate attempts to quell the electronic banshee. I don't think my cooking skills are quite as negligent as the frequency of the screams of the batteried-round-ones would suggest.

Anyway, back in the office. The fire wardens don their flouros and then they do what fire wardens do - I'm not sure exactly what because I've never been asked or have been deemed responsible enough to be offered the job (and I'm not a good volunteerer for jobs that might require effort coupled with responsibility).

Alas, office folk don't pop up like meerkats at the sound of the alarm, seeking the nearest escape, faces twitching in abject fear.

Some officelings check out the weather to see if a jacket will be required and others rootle around for handbags or coffee cards. There is no urgency as one officeling decides between a scarf or jacket. Pockets are checked for phones as folk meander to the fire escapes. Today, I had to remind a fellow where it actually was.

Chortling down the stairs we lament the loss of work time for a nanosecond quickly moving on to see if we could manage a quick trip to the bank while the fire engine is in attendence.

Am I hailing complacency? Possibly, but not intentionally. No, I'm just thinking about the office mechanics of the alarm that cries wolf.

Fingers crossed, the wolf will n'eer appear.

Sorry soup

Sorry has got a bit fluffy, and podgy on its royalties due to over-use. This could possibly be due to my own perpetual state of sorridom. I walk into a supermarket trolley and I practically throw myself in front of it in an apologetic fit. I've also been known to use an apologetic turn of phrase with parking meters and tree roots. Somebody barges into me, an apology shoots out like an mis-aimed bullet.

I'm sorry, but you can't have that three foot chocolate bunny ... I'm sorry that your car is embedded in my car after you took no notice of that silly red light ... sorry ... sorry ... sorry ...

The other day I walked into the office, a view of the sea greeted me as it does each and every morning. A warship docked at the port, was grey and sullen on the sunny day. The ship was a portent of doom which I hadn't even had time to ponder before I found myself flailing and bobbing in a frothy soup of cold sorry.  

Sorry, in office situations, is part of the blame-chain. The blame ball drops and is suddenly being bounced around the office faster than a flea on speed. Its thick veneer of blame remains untarnished as it passes from one to the other. Finally, the last person, is left with the ball (it may have passed to some people more than once but is quickly dispatched to the next unfortunate), blame burning on his or her cheeks. Of late, the flamin' reds are usually mine.

I apologise, using voice, gesticulations and even email. And it dawns on me what a dreadful waste of sorry, because I'm not sure about the sincerity of my apologies which calls into question other people's sorries that are doing the rounds. I've used the word so many times, I seem to have lost the real and true meaning of the word. There are many sorries to be made, important sorries, but my imbecilic, runty sorries should be left to grow into proper, meaningful sorries and let out on their own, only when they are meaningful and robust.

There is a point to this, and no I won't apologise for my apologetic rantings. I've given up chocolate for the week, let's see if I can put a sock in the sorry bucket and see how I get on.

Don't mess with mum

I've rattled around on the sidelines for years. I have stood up to my knees in mud, huddled under  brollies, I have cut too many oranges into cute little segments and endured the wrath when said oranges were left on the bench on the way to the game.

I've sat in Accident and Emergency clinics as the family player has been x-rayed ... let's see ... his shoulders, skull, jaw, hips and ankles. If I knew where all the x-rays were, I'd magic up an internal collage of my oldest son. He has bounced and bumped, thumped and thudded around the rugby pitch since he was seven. He has broken his nose and I've lost count of the badly bruised eyes. Not my game of choice, but alas it was not my choice.

I've watched my youngest son, dance around the rugby field somehow managing not to get injured as his great talent was in keeping his distance from the ball. When he decided to partake, he was all energy and wrath, but these bursts were not as constant or as frenetic as those of his older sibling.

I've screamed from the sidelines, in ways I never thought I would or could. Sometimes I'm surprised at the strength of my vocals - I've grunted and gasped with the best of them. I've glared at the parent calling my son the 'fat white boy', but refrained from acting upon an impulse to tackle said parent and try to ellicit a retraction through some form of passive strangulation.

I've enjoyed the gossip on the sideline with other gumbooted mums. In fact, I've usually been so immersed, I've missed my son's greatest injury moments.  

I've been apalled at the racist comments and taunts from both supporters and players. And was secretly pleased when my son planted a fist into a player who'd called his friend something I'm not prepared to write down. (Rationally, I don't condone violence, whether or not justifiable.)

I've watched fights on the sidelines, both on and off the field. Remember this is kids we're talking about, some parents' role modelling skills leave a smidge to be desired, as they shriek obscenities at their own players but usually more specifically at the referee.

I've watched the ref. I've listened to the vitriole hurled at him from the sideline. I've heard the obscenties sprayed at him on the field by the players. I'd always felt uncomfortable with the comments but had never acted upon them, well, not at first.

I've watched my nephew and my son become referees. Bye-bye nice-mum. Standing proudly on the sideline at the first game, my heckles slowly raised as a woman heckled and abused the ref ... my baby ... on the sidelines. Her language, was both vulgar and unpleasant. My heckles were rising so quickly that I was starting to resemble a mohawked punk. With nostrils flared, and eyes wide, I turned to the woman and noted that she was screaming at my 14 year old son ref'ing his first game. Her countenance returned to middle-class insincerity, and with not a hint of an apology, said "He's doing a great job." Whatever.

Not sure why I'm writing this down, the start of the rugby season, perhaps? Anway, to cut a long story short, I now drop my ref at the game and seek out a nearby cafe to keep out of earshot. I think my son is worried he may end up having to break up a fight on the sidelines, his mother vs a vocal opponent.

Who'd have thought, eh? And they say rugby is a game for gentlemen (and women).

Dancing Beans

What is it about dancing? Well, at my age, some might not confuse my rather hippo-like moves, crashing through similarly flailing bodies, dancing (spoil sports). But hey, if you're going to flail, a well trodden floor (and hopefully well supported!) sticky with beer and other spilled alcoholic beverages tippled and toppled from dancers' drinking vessels, then what better place to flail?

And what better music to wobble to than the  B-52s, Dragon, Duran Duran and The Dudes. The eighties were something else and now far enough away to be almost trendy although those trojan-like shoulder pads will probably never re-reach the pedestal of cool. Mind you, I don't think young folk use the word 'trendy'. Does 'groovy' still work ... I digress.

One good friend noted, from a standing position on the outer dance floor that she couldn't bring herself, as the sober driver, to join in the music driven battle. She had no illusions - she looked on at the truly awful spectacle unfolding before her, she could see with unclouded eyes and a head that would be able to retain all memories when the dawn clouted into other fuzzy still-banging morning heads. And it was dark, so thank goodness for the mercy of darkness, it doesn't only secret away trolls and monsters.

Luckily, also loud - very, very loud. Because quite often, when you're doing your moves on the dance floor, you're also singing. And of course you think you can sing, and of course you can. You're Madonna on the dance floor ... with a few more jiggly bits. Unfortunately, if your vocals are somewhat limited in the shower, a glass of wine isn't the wonder sing-thing. And lyrics, well the specially written lyrics to gallop along to the tune you're throwing yourself about to, are not a prequisite for belting out said song.

Don't get me onto karaoke ... the night I nearly (inadvertently) garrotted the DJ ...

Appropriate fortification is needed prior to public humiliation. However, as you put your left foot in and shake whatever about (and many of the things shaking didn't used to shake in your youth) to the Dancing Queen, just jolly well enjoy yourself. You have nothing to lose, and if you've had kids, then your dignity is long-gone.

"You can dance ... you can jive ..." It must be true, then. Thanks Abba.

Open flow

Open plan decreases the floor space and shoves colleagues together, within farting distance. A lone emission can no longer be slipped out in the comfort of your own space, it is quickly owned in the open space but seldom owned up to.

The art of ignoring is immediately apparent. Lips purse and eyes squint purposefully at the screen ahead, while cranial machinations try to determine where the emission may have been emitted from. A flick of the head gives the detective a sweep of the office -most faces are pursed in disgust, eyes fixed ahead but the eyes of the detective land on the one face with eyes darting around, accusingly. It is those eyes that allows an immediate match. Is it the look of fear? Or is it embarrassment that settles on the cheeks? Another clue.

Flatulence, whether corporate or early educational, is dealt by the secret dealer, dealing the card nobody wants to choose or own up to.

Farts have a certain flow, not particularly social, but they do posess flow. They float and waft around the office, their direction amiable with no particular travel plan. I would never own up to making such a social faux pas. Of course, it is a different story at home, but othat's another, and far more purile story.

Interestingly, I hadn't intended to write about egestive gasses, I had something else in mind, but where the mind wanders, the mouse might as well follow. Change the world? Probably best to change your undies first (didn' t your mum always tell you that?).