Thursday, October 26, 2006

Liquid Lunch

The office lies quietly under a hazy and subdued air of the sort usually only apparent on a Friday. A colleague is getting married at the weekend, so at lunchtime everyone troops out to the pub that normally is professionally avoided during working hours until the last day of the week, when everyone is to be found spending about a quarter of the working day there. Now, everyone is back at their desks, too tired to pretend that they are working by striding around clutching some papers (an excellent trick), begging the little clock in the bottom right of their computer screen to tick faster and regretting their third drink.

It seemed like a good idea to everyone at the time; a jovial self-satisfied atmosphere enveloped us all, and the thought of an afternoon hangover was pushed to the back of each person’s mind. Nonetheless, our conversations provided a hint that we were a little far gone, veering as they did from the ins and outs of office life to the pointless and quite random. The girl I work with randomly brought up a pet peeve.

“I really hate it how people buy fried chicken, and as they eat it they scatter the leftovers on the street. I don’t want to see cartilage on the pavement.”
“Well, it’s probably preferable to burgers. Burgers would be worse,” opinioned Soft Paul, “Burgers would be a health hazard. Very slippery burgers, especially with too much mayonnaise.”
“It would be chaos. We should be glad of the bones, providing as they do vital traction on an already treacherous surface,” I agreed.
“Yes,” says Soft Paul, warming to his topic. “In fact, during the winter they should get rid of the gritters, and replace them with boners.”

2 comments:

Me Over Here said...

See, that's why I'm so glad that the people I work with are ALREADY my friends. They forgive me of my tipsy ways, especially when I start speaking very poor Spanish around my 98% Hispanic colleagues. At least they get a kick out of it.

Dancinfairy said...

Oh, you are making me nostalgic for the good old days. Our new office has no pubs within walking distance so someone has to drive. That someone seems to be me.

Farewell sweet giggly tipsy friday-ness.