Work
The Professionals
We all stayed late last night for a biiiiig clearup here at Clerkenwell Towers (the office manager bribed us with booze and Pringles). Anything to be chucked away was put in reception, in front of my desk. It turns out that we had quite a lot of junk: 
My office now looks like the set from a 1970s cop show. I keep expecting Bodie and Doyle to drive into my desk in their Ford Cortina.
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Money, money, money
I've been asking for a payrise from the Powers That Be here at Clerkenwell Towers for a while now. To fill you in on the background, I took a big paycut a while back so I could job-share with my mate Rooster. But this arrangement only lasted about 6 months, after which he disappeared up North to concentrate on cutting an album with his band. Therefore, I was working full-time on a part-time salary. What's more, I was being paid for doing reception work when I was also doing PA stuff, and facilities stuff, and all sorts of other things. It all came to a head when a temp agency (the one that got me this job in the first place) gave me a booklet that showed average salaries for administrative workers in London. It turned out that I was being paid the same as a receptionist in a small suburban doctor's surgery. Clerkenwell Towers isn't a small suburban doctor's surgery. It's a big, US-owned media company. It became clear to me that maybe I wasn't being paid enough. Now, many months after I first asked for a bit more money, the financial controller came over to me with a smile on his face. "You're going to love me," he said. "I've got you your pay rise". And he named a figure that was five thousand pounds more per year than I currently earn. I squealed in delight. "There's more," he said, smile widening. "They're backdating your payrise." "From when?" "From February 1st." Oh. My. God! I'm so happy, I could puke. This month's pay packet is going to be a sight for sore eyes, let me tell you. Join me in a celebratory dance.
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Enlightenment
Every other week, Clerkenwell Towers has a guy who comes in to give the staff free shiatsu massages. It's one of the perks of the job, and most of the staff go in for it. But there's just one or two who never put their names down. I just had an extraordinary conversation with one of these nay-sayers. Brusque northern colleague: Look at all those gayboys putting their names down for a massage. Me: They're not gay. BNC: They're getting a massage from a guy. That's gay. Me: No it's not. BNC: Totally gay. Me: The massage guy is married with three children. BNC: Listen, that means nothing. It's still gay. Me: So what if it was me getting a massage from a woman? BNC: (decisively) Lesbian. Me: What decade are you living in? BNC: Hey, I'm an enlightened guy. That soft percolating sound you can hear is the sound of my poor mind, boggling.
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Good morning sports racers
Clerkenwell Towers is seemingly deserted today. It appears that a great hole has opened up and swallowed all my co-workers (or maybe people are just working from home or on vacation or something. Though personally I prefer the idea that they're all lying at the bottom of a big pit somewhere. Moaning). Thus, I am going to turn up the speakers on my PC and spend the rest of the day going through the archives of The Show. Because Ze Frank is a god to me. I recommend that you do the same. Even if you have to dig a big pit and push all your colleagues into it.
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Benefits
There are downsides to working at Clerkenwell Towers. The crushing boredom, for one. Also the crappy pay and the jerky colleagues and the annoying boss. However, every now and then I realise why I like working here. Generally when one of my toner suppliers sends me a BOX FULL OF GODDAMN CHOCOLATE! 
That ain't no ordinary chocolate either, hell no. We're talking Cadbury's Cocoahouse (presumably they are having some stab at being upmarket). This month's PMS is going to be a breeze.
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Happy happy
I'm in a jolly good mood today, chaps. Mainly because I just had my lunch (a cheese and pickle toastie, and a white wine spritzer, since you ask) in a pub in Cambridgeshire. Which is conveniently located within walking distance of Clerkenwell Towers. Confused? That's because I went to Ye Olde Mitre Tavern which, despite being located in the heart of the City, is officially part of Cambridgeshire (something to do with it being on on land belonging to the Bishops of Ely). It's small, lovely and almost impossible to find. It was also blissfully quiet and cool - probably due to the aforementioned inaccessibility - which on this stifling day was a real relief. London is so brilliant. Love it, love it, love it. I'm also in a good mood because of the fantastic summer rain that started coming down on me as I walked back to the office. Some (rather lovely-looking) workmen offered me shelter from the downpour; I said I was enjoying the rain too much. And I'm wearing a new dress that looks pretty damn fine, even if I do say so myself (perhaps this was the reason the workmen offered me the shelter of their building site? Nice work, new dress!) And I go to Cyprus in a week's time to do a play. Yes, you heard me. Cyprus. Feel free to hate me. Yup, I think it's safe to say that I am in a thoroughly good mood.
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