Makeover

I hadn't expected much from the grossly over-hyped office makeover, but the final result is an insult. There are gulags with better decor. Crazy Horse must have retrieved the 'new' desks from a skip somewhere. Mine glories in greyness, it is the furniture equivalent of a black hole sucking light from its immediate vicinity. It is pock marked with sticky coffee rings and I had to prop up the wobbly leg with scrap A4. It is mostly wood, apart from the puke coloured laminate inlay, and would disgrace a bonfire. I have the sneaking suspicion that Bishop may have rearranged the furniture before the rest of us arrived. His desk is the pick of the bunch, it has certainly never been near the frontline of serious admin. The office reeked completely of paint fumes when we arrived for work yesterday. Mrs C had been scent marking her territory with pot pourri prior to the arrival of the new girl, but even that didn't make any difference. The painters were still finishing up as we arrived. They were apparently kept back by having to repeatedly move the various stacks of boxes of paper. The stationery suppliers can't collect our surplus 297 boxes until tomorrow. The paint fumes were made worse by the fact that most of the windows had been painted shut. By tea break I could feel myself becoming quite light headed. When lunchtime arrived there was a mass exodus. It was too late for Bishop though, he spent the morning insisting that he couldn't smell a thing, but just after twelve he stripped to his waist, wrote 'Spock Rocks' on his chest in indelible marker and passed out on his desk. The rest of us took pictures with our phones. If his brain is permanently damaged Crazy Horse will have a lot of explaining to do. Goodness knows what Natasha, the new addition to our team, thought about the whole performance.