Egyptian test card

Open plan offices are such an appealing idea. Communication flows uninterrupted; mission statements activated; corporate bonding bonded; in-fighting eliminated; goodwill promoted; tea making shared. In theory.

In practice, all my visits to our open plan office in Croydon inevitably mean me taking up squatters’ rights on somebody else’s desk and sitting with my back to everyone whilst somewhere ‘Flashdance’ plays continually and almost (but not quite) inaudibly on a badly tuned radio. I’m never here frequently enough to remember most people’s names either, so spend my day endlessly circling in meandering circumlocutions and elaborate routines of gestures and grimaces in order to avoid actually having to use them. Needless to say, I never answer the phone.

On the upside, I am at least on facial recognition terms with most of my colleagues’ children / spouses / pets and can take a random stab at the point at which each lost interest in their own job (judged accurately I feel by the extent to which the memos and e-mails surrounding the desk are out of date). The uplifting mottos and prayers on my co-workers’ desks are usually enlightening and encouraging (St Francis De Sales today) and I sometimes copy them down into my diary to ponder at a later date. The café over the road serves delightful soul-replenishing greasy food at maroon Formica tables. I can pay for the car park using my card instead of a mountain of small change. And there is a cracking view of the Croydon flyover from the 5th floor.

It is probably superfluous to admit that I find actually working in the open plan office completely impossible because this seems to be equally applicable to everyone else as well, even the habitués. A surreptitious inventory at any given moment will reveal small clusters of gossiping (that drops to whispering at juicy bits), a bit of random texting, a pinch of net surfing, a lot of window staring, extensive fag break taking and a surfeit of long and unnecessarily detailed telephone calls. Of actual work there is not much sign, although there is - naturally - a mutually unspoken agreement to collude in the pretence that you are dreadfully busy. Which of course you are, in a way – just not with work.

However, even the dark mutterings of the office security guard, the inappropriate comments of the drunk outside the newsagent and the endless queues of traffic going nowhere could not dent my joie de vivre. For tomorrow I am going on holiday. To Egypt.

The mission is a simple one: enjoy the company of my wonderful friends Liz, David & Stephen; eat lots of fabulous food; read loads of books; go diving in the beautiful Red Sea; stare at the sun; sleep.

Repeat for a week.

I will be back...