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A warm, happy feeling is starting to permeate the office as it begins to dawn on the workforce that there are, in fact, a mere two hours left in the working week.
I suppose it all starts on a Wednesday morning with the fire alarm test. Every week, without fail, a shrill yet assertive voice emanates from the loudspeaker on the wall between the gurgling coffee machine and Len's desk, "Attention all members of staff. The fire alarm is about to be tested. Please ignore this alarm and do not evacuate the building." The workforce brace themselves mid-task to bear witness to what is sometimes no more than a "bloep", yet at other times can smash every window in the place and leave groups of staff running for the doors, fist fighting along the way as they hurdle desks in blind panic.
The fire alarm is the fulcrum, the peak, the tipping point beyond which one enters the second half of the week. It is the point, in theory, where all are at full tilt. The point at which plans that were set in place on Monday begin to bear fruit. The point at which the hum of distant conversations reach a crescendo. The point at which the managerial hierarchy crumbles and ceases to exist, leaving all as equals (with the exception of Craig who fails, week in and week out, to hear the alarm as a result of his head and shoulders being buried well within Hamid's asshole).
Its strange, this week thing. Ascend 'till the Wednesday fire alarm. Descend 'til Thursday evening. Before you know it, along comes Friday. Friday is a unique day; solitary and removed from the rest of the week. It is a day when one stirs from unconscious meanderings wondering why the alarm was set for a Saturday only moments before it dawns upon one that there is, unfortunately, one more day to go! After the shock has subsided and the reality has permeated the clouded mind, solace is found in the fact that there will be no looking smart for the day's performance. It is Jean Pant Day after all. Out come the jeans, the crumpled T and the stubble-ridden face. It is the day when all except the old and infirm arrive in a motley assortment of colours and styles. A day where the squeaky gay sounding guy from marketing turns out in gothic attire, Ted shows up in shorts and Melvyn in the bright pink golf shirt has undoubtedly been dressed by his mum again.
Funny how visions of beer start to float through the mind from 4pm onwards... The plane has long gone landed, refuelled, reloaded and left again. I'm heading home for a beer....
I suppose it all starts on a Wednesday morning with the fire alarm test. Every week, without fail, a shrill yet assertive voice emanates from the loudspeaker on the wall between the gurgling coffee machine and Len's desk, "Attention all members of staff. The fire alarm is about to be tested. Please ignore this alarm and do not evacuate the building." The workforce brace themselves mid-task to bear witness to what is sometimes no more than a "bloep", yet at other times can smash every window in the place and leave groups of staff running for the doors, fist fighting along the way as they hurdle desks in blind panic.
The fire alarm is the fulcrum, the peak, the tipping point beyond which one enters the second half of the week. It is the point, in theory, where all are at full tilt. The point at which plans that were set in place on Monday begin to bear fruit. The point at which the hum of distant conversations reach a crescendo. The point at which the managerial hierarchy crumbles and ceases to exist, leaving all as equals (with the exception of Craig who fails, week in and week out, to hear the alarm as a result of his head and shoulders being buried well within Hamid's asshole).
Its strange, this week thing. Ascend 'till the Wednesday fire alarm. Descend 'til Thursday evening. Before you know it, along comes Friday. Friday is a unique day; solitary and removed from the rest of the week. It is a day when one stirs from unconscious meanderings wondering why the alarm was set for a Saturday only moments before it dawns upon one that there is, unfortunately, one more day to go! After the shock has subsided and the reality has permeated the clouded mind, solace is found in the fact that there will be no looking smart for the day's performance. It is Jean Pant Day after all. Out come the jeans, the crumpled T and the stubble-ridden face. It is the day when all except the old and infirm arrive in a motley assortment of colours and styles. A day where the squeaky gay sounding guy from marketing turns out in gothic attire, Ted shows up in shorts and Melvyn in the bright pink golf shirt has undoubtedly been dressed by his mum again.
Funny how visions of beer start to float through the mind from 4pm onwards... The plane has long gone landed, refuelled, reloaded and left again. I'm heading home for a beer....
