embarrassed about anything. There I was, all snotty and teary-eyed in front of all my colleagues, and he looked entirely unconcerned about the whole thing. Given that I’d made such a huge deal of dating him to everyone, he could have at least pretended to care that I was splitting up with him in such a histrionic manner, the utter bastard.
Sigh. Never mix business with pleasure, kids. That’s the hard and painful lesson I learned with that relationship. Thank God it only lasted a few months.
The Christmas flood didn’t help Stratagem’s fortunes either. We all came in on 27 December to find that the whole office had turned into an aquatic fun park. So had the offices in two of the floors above us, and every single one below.
All because somebody had shoved a pair of knickers into something called a macerator. Quite how they’d managed this is anybody’s guess. The plumbers were so nonplussed, one of them thought it could have been an act of God.
Given that the knickers were white, a bit baggy, and emblazoned with Santa Claus penetrating one of his reindeer, I’m more inclined to think it was an act of Drunk.
The water penetration took weeks to sort out. We all had to work from home, and as I’m sure you’re aware, there’s a vast difference between working in the office and ‘working from home’ for those who aren’t used to the experience.
The whole episode cost Stratagem thousands – and added to Peter’s mounting stress, of course. We’ve all been tiptoeing around him in the months since – hoping against hope that the company’s fortunes would start to turn.
This has not yet happened.
Hence the pervading sense of gloom and doom that hits me like a depressed sledgehammer the second I walk on to the office floor.
I fight against it as I hurry my way over to my desk. If I can get to it, and keep my head down, then maybe no one will notice how tardy I am.
I get some fairly desultory glances from most of my work colleagues as I rush past them, trying not to make eye contact. This previously vibrant, happy bunch have been reduced to cold stares and shrugged shoulders. It really is quite a horrible thing to both witness and be a part of.
I know damn well that, in about twenty minutes, I will be exhibiting exactly the same kind of behaviour. The atmosphere in this place does it to you.
Still . . . this apathy does mean that nobody really gives a shit that I’m late for work, so I am able to reach my desk and set myself up for the day without anyone taking me to task.
I should be happy about this, but I’m comprehensively not – because any workplace that doesn’t care whether you’re late or not is probably a workplace that isn’t long for this world.
The knickers are well and truly stuck in the macerator – figuratively speaking, anyway.
I fire up the PC and look at my inbox. This is free of new emails, save for a spam piece of marketing, asking me if I want to invest in gold bullion. I have about as much money in my bank account as there is hope in this office, so I delete the offer and sigh.
There was a time when my inbox would be full every day.
. . . is it possible to slit your wrists with a plastic bottle bought in Boots?
Just behind me I hear the sound of Peter’s office door opening, and I turn to see him walk out. He has a tentative, nervous look on his face.
Oh dear.
Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.
That is the face of someone who’s about to impart dreadful knowledge.
I’m about to lose my job.
The cold certainty of it strikes me at my very core. Peter hasn’t even opened his mouth yet, but I know what he’s about to say.
He’s going to stand there in front of the dozen of us that are left, out of the twenty plus who used to work here, and he’s going to tell us that our jobs are going into the same macerator that chewed up the Xmas knickers.
My heart leaps into my throat.
I’m going to have to find another job. I’m going to have to go to job interviews. I’m going to have to – gulp – put myself out there again.
‘Good morning, everyone,’ Peter says to us, hesitantly. I instantly feel incredibly sorry for him. This must be so very