The AC in office is on full blast. And all I want to do is curl up in bed with a book and music, while the AC at home is on full blast. However, I will probably head out for drinks and dinner.
A little like the famous Miss Marple, I find people can be categorised. Like the super-efficient, sentence repeating, genuinely fake people, especially women, who remind one of a pre-occupied Aunty with three well-behaved kids -the type in whose presence one didnt know what to do as a kid. They nod at every sentence, have a small smile on almost all the time and their faces mirror your expression to the 'T'. Problem is, with them you dont know when they are genuine, and when they are fake. So I have concluded that they are so fake, they dont know what genuine is. Their life is one long tryst of political-correctness.
It helps to write down a few lines than just pretend to work, I can see my frndly neighbourhood clock telling me six minutes have ticked by. But the time means nothing anymore. Six-thirty may be the time on paper to leave work, but nothing here moves as per whats written on some paper. The advent and departure of one in this place is independant of logical work hours. It is dependant upon the Holy Being also known as Boss. So though the clock may tick by, unless The Man leaves at the alleged time, it holds no meaning to the life of a mere mortal like me.
However, what does give comfort is the knowledge that the next few minutes may give him reason to move away from his beloved desk, for the weekend.
Considering that the aforementioned being doesnt have anything of much value to achieve in office, except an ability to brag to his wife about the work load he manages, it is to be hoped that he will bow to the time rule today.
For lack of exciting things happening in my personal life, I await news from frnds.
With time having passed in between writing a post and getting entertained by colleagues wrestling with the printer, I give up on office politics and just head for the door. Weekend, here I come.