Is It Just Me? (7 page)

Throughout the office job years I was The Great Directionless Wonder. And oh, what a shock that was. At eighteen, one has such grand plans for oneself. World domination hardly begins to cover them. Allow me to demonstrate by means of a little, if I may be so bold, scene-ette:

I had all sorts of rollicking professional plans when I left school, and my eighteen-year-old self would be horrified by the years I spent as an office junior.

But what about you, MDRC? Did you whoosh (good word) straight out of education into an absolutely slap-bang-perfect career? What’s that? ‘No, absolutely not, you giant moron, that happens to almost NO ONE, so stop making us feel worse about it?’ Yes, good. Excellent. Then it isn’t just me. We’re on the same page (figuratively speaking, of course – obviously we’ve been
literally
on the same page ever since you started reading the book. Do you see? Hello? Anyone there? Oh, come on, it was mildly amusing).

Personally, I think on leaving school we aren’t prepared to deal with the seriousness the work place presents. Indeed, the formality of the real world, full stop. School was seven glorious years of anarchy. Rules were there to be broken. Surely anything ‘serious’ was just a blank canvas onto which we could project our jolly japery?

In fact – and here I digress a little, please indulge me, do – I still find that a formal scenario provokes an odd, childish response. Is it just me who finds they want something inappropriate to happen when presented with one? I can’t walk past a vicar without passionately willing him to shout ‘Bollocks!’ and kick over a traffic cone. Whenever I see a nun I want her to pull up her habit and start dancing the can-can, just for the sheer heck of it. Something, anything, to break the spell. I should add I have nothing against nuns and vicars and good godly folk; it’s just the outfits, and the systems, and the baggage of formality and respect. Oh my goodness, here I go . . .
^*
has panic attack at the notion of ‘seriousness’, runs off to find custard pie, throws pie in own face, sits back, relieved
^*

This dramatic response to seriousness seems to run in my family: my dear grandmother once attended a very formal Foreign Office dinner in the 1950s. At some point during the evening, she found herself face-to-face with a white-tie-wearing army general. At which point, she suddenly and to everyone’s astonishment (including, probably, her own), hurled a glass of red wine over the poor man. And I can absolutely understand why she did it. I’m 90 per cent certain that should I ever find myself standing alongside a formally dressed military leader, it won’t be long before I grab a vol-au-vent and ram it onto his nose. (You can get a great purchase on a nose with a vol-au-vent. Try it.) Senior Services Personnel, you have been warned.

^*
Eighteen-year-old Miranda rushes in, giggling hysterically
^*
Oh my gosh, listen to this. Mrs Scott the housemistress is about to do an inspection of all the dorms. Dolly’s dorm got ready early coz they’ve got choir practice, so we’ve just gone and got a sheep from the field and led it in to their dorm. An actual sheep! So when they get back from practice, just before Mrs Scott inspects, they’ll have a sheep in their dorm. I think I am about to literally die laughing. I’ve got to go and see what happens. Last time, Mrs Scott exploded when she found a Jilly Cooper hidden inside Bella’s hot water bottle cover . . .
^*
rushes out, hysterical
^*

I think that proves my point very nicely. Being naughty has always come out in situations that demand decorum. Which made for a rude awakening when it came to embracing the systems of adult life.

On my first day in my first ever office job as a data in-putter, I returned to my desk after lunch and accidentally knocked an open bottle of Lucozade into my bag. At that moment, my new boss approached my desk. I stood up, orange liquid dripping gently to the floor at just about crotch-height, and, of course, I did what I would’ve done if I’d been in class at school. I made a big jokey thing of it, shouting, ‘HA. It looks like I’m weeing myself. But I’m not. It’s Lucozade. I know. Why don’t we pour Lucozade into someone else’s bag, so it’ll look like
they’re
weeing themselves. That would be HILAIRE! Let’s do it to Penny in HR; then we can call her Pissy Penny Piss Pot. Pissy Penny. No?’ My boss simply shook her head, put some papers on my desk for filing, and strode off.

I sensed then that this was not going to be a world that welcomed my jolly japes.

Nor is it the sort of thing that parents ever sit down and tell you, is it? That, ‘Life might not always be quite as fun as it was in the fifth form, so best start practising your serious-face now.’

OH MY GOD, THE SHEEP HAS BEEN POOING IN BELLA’S NEW PIXIE BOOTS. SO funny. She was screaming! And Bella nearly hit Beady coz she joked the sheep had fashion taste and then Twig nearly choked on her Black Jack for laughing –

Can I briefly interrupt you, Little M, to apologise to MDRC for the Mallory Towers-esque nicknames. And explain: Bella (Annabelle, the cool one, good at everything), Twig (naturally thin, enjoyed reminding us all of her ‘fast, lucky metabolism’), Beady (big eyes, tiny head). Then there was Milly (Camilla went red every time she spoke, or was passed a ball in sport), Clare-Bear (obsessed with her teddy but in a funny way, not a weird way, top of the list to be in a dorm with), Billy (had a beard, – unfortunate at 12), Pussy (loved cats and had t-shirts with pictures of hers on), Bridgey (what else do you do with Bridget?), Puddles (no idea) and Podge (liked sweets, hated Twig). My dearest friends at school, and harmless nicknames then, but embarrassing when you find yourself shouting ‘Pussy!’ excitedly across Centre Court at Wimbledon during a quiet match point fifteen years later. Carry on . . .

So, Mrs Scott came in and was so thrown by finding herself face to face with a large farm animal that she simply said, ‘Come on, who put a sheep in here?’ I have never found anything funnier.

And in fact, Little M, this might be the right time to tell you that you probably never will.

What? How do you mean? Isn’t this . . . life? Sheep in dormitories, water-balloon fights, super-gluing Miss Jenvey to her chair when she’s having an afternoon snooze in the common room, flashing your bum in the coach?

Well . . . as you get older, you’re expected to put a lid on these things. A bit. Certainly the flashing bit. And, be honest, that was never really your bag. I mean, you know, nudity and all that. Remember, we were the one who would always change in the dorms under a kind of what I call ‘dome towel tent’ (please note
another
correct ‘what I call’ usage).

Are we over that shyness now and all cool and free and stuff, like Twig when she paraded her first M&S bra?

Umm . . . no. We remain unable to deal with any kind of nudity when it’s not in a
^*
lowers voice
^*
sexual
^*
back to normal voice
^*
context.

You can’t even SAY ‘sexual’.

I just don’t like it as a word. It’s a weird, serpent-y word. It sounds completely the opposite of what it actually means. And not liking the word doesn’t mean I’m not
^*
lowers voice
^*
sexual. It’s just, well, I’m a bit British about the whole being-naked-in-front-of-strange-people business. That’s all.

In fact, MDRC, it’s not just
being
naked. Even feeling a bit more naked than usual can send me into a huge, mad, neurotic tailspin of desperate innuendo and red-faced-ness. Is it just me who finds the whole business of going commando completely, overwhelmingly horrendous? It’s only happened to me once or twice – usually due to some kind of laundry ‘malfunction’ – but my goodness, it’s ruined my day. I simply couldn’t handle the fact that I was naked underneath a pair of jeans.

But if you’ve got your jeans on, you’re
not
naked.

It feels naked because one is used to another layer between a jean and a bottom.

Oh. My. God.

A woman from mainland Europe probably regularly goes commando to feel sexy or give the day a bit of edge. I just wanted to go up to strangers and shout, ‘Hello, yes, excuse me, you’re probably thinking that I’ve got a weird expression on my face because I’m not wearing any pants. Well, that’s true, I am pant-less. But I’m not doing it for kicks. Absolutely not. It was a laundry crisis. It was either this or cycling shorts. I am not dirty or weird. Thank you, as you were.’

You are officially a loser from Planet Loser. Can we please get back to the subject in hand before I decide to jack it all in and never become you.

Sure. So, yes, as you get older, Little M, you are going to spend a good deal of time in places where you’ll not be able to engage in quite so much unbridled jollity as you are used to.

What? Do you mean like church? Because you can be very jolly in church. All it takes is for one person to do a giant, echo-y fart and you’re away.

Not quite. I’m talking specifically about office life.

‘Office life’? Do you mean life in government office?

Umm . . .

Or having a whole office full of staff working for you?

Not quite. In fact – here’s the thing – we spend the vast majority of our twenties and early thirties doing basic administration in a series of offices.

What? But, but, aren’t we in charge? We’re meant to be in charge by twenty-five.

Well, we’re not. Mostly, we’re the very opposite of in charge. In fact, we’re quite often a temp.

‘Temp’?

A temporary assistant, performing roles for a short period of time, in the absence of a full-time member of staff.

You mean, the person who comes in and does the stuff no one else wants to do?

That’s one way to look at it. I always preferred to think of myself as being very much like Superman, magically appearing when most needed and saving the day. Just without a cape.

Humph.

Oh, cheer up. At one point we do so well we’re promoted.
^*
picks up imaginary phone
^*
Hello, Miranda Hart, OFFICE MANAGER speaking.

Office manager? Do we get to boss people around?

Not really. It’s more organising and ordering stationery. But we do get to boss paperclips around. And we get our own swivel chair. MDRC, aren’t swivel chairs wonderful things? Are you on a swivel chair right now? (Are you cheekily reading this at work?) If so, let’s all swivel together. One – two – trois (French for three) –
SWIVEL
. . .

Stop it.
This is horrendous . . . you’re SO square. You’re like someone in a novel. A really depressing novel, set during the war, about a lonely secretary who lives in a bed-sit and eventually turns to drink after her boyfriend in the army dies. This is terrible.

Don’t worry, little one, I know it sounds unexciting, and a bit like we are betraying our dreams. Life post-school was, admittedly, a bit of a shock. It was all a bit . . . grey. A bit worky. But you realised pretty quickly that you’d get sectioned if you put a sheep in someone’s office.

That would be funny, though.

It would. Oh, I agree, it really would. And I’ve come to realise that it’s because we’re the kind of person who finds the putting of sheep in offices funny that we
need
a bit of time at the bottom of the professional food chain. I know it sounds boring, but you really don’t want a highly pressured job in your twenties. You need time to work out the world, gain confidence, make friends, go through some rubbish times and get stronger. And I tell you what: some of my happiest, funniest times have been spent in offices. Perhaps because the work was mundane, even the tiniest of distractions become wildly hilarious and wonderful. Actually, I’d say that 90 per cent of my doubled-over-gasping-with-laughter-laughing-so-much-that-you-can’t-breathe-and-think-you-might-die laughing has occurred during slow days in offices.

It sounds pretty lame to me.

Right, I’m going to drop this conciliatory tone right now. I am going to draw myself up to my full and magnificent height, and I’m going to defend the gloriousness of office life. You need to know that even as life develops in superficially disappointing ways,
there is still fun to be had.