Yesterday I spent the morning helping a friend move her office from one room to a room on the other side of the corridor - putting up curtain rails and unscrewing the nameplate on the door and carrying a million boxes of papery files in our new paperless offices. It was a chance to meet the people she works alongside. This was the first time I've ever experienced her in her at-work persona - and it was equally painful to meet her workmates in their identical identity.
The government wants oldies like me ("the economically inactive over-50s") to stop being so economically inactive and just get back into the office. I must admit that of all the jobs I've had over the decades, the ones in offices were among my favourites - much more fun than working outdoors, much more relaxed than working in restaurants, a little less boring than working in shops ..... But yesterday reminded me why I and I think millions like me will only be forced back to work at the end of a gun.
Work used to be fun. Decades ago, when I started it, there was room for the eccentrics, the lazy, the obstreperous, the pleasantly criminal, for all of us - then as now, 20% of the workforce do 80% of the work - but back then the hard-workers did it without thinking, it was just the way the world ran and had always run. But yesterday I was reminded that work isn't fun anymore, that people at work have to become phoney, you have to take your orders from fools, it's now time for the intelligent to be directed by the stupid, they paint my skin like a target, get paid by a ten-year-old, but it's good to be free, that's the way all my friends are, except maybe one or two, but now I'm doing my own thing, it's the best home I've ever had and I'm staying here.
The country's been fucked by the stupidest people in it and now jeremy hunt wants me to stop being so negative and help him out, smile and nod at every conversation regurgitated from the BBC, the curtains have been moved, the desk is full again, the computer keyboard clicks for 9 hours every day as 0s and 1s are moved around, how is that even work, how is this even music, how is anything even real anymore ? I know of almost no one who is alive enough to say anything they really believe, the rare times I try to do it myself I see them all backing away, the bravest of them will tell me where the broom is and tell me to sweep the car park, moving trash from one place to another, how is any of this even work ? - how is any of this even real ?
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recorded today, photo/art: me, today, title ack'ment Ruth Bidgood
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