Chrimbo Limbo
Is there anything more depressing than working between Christmas and New year? The death of a loved one? Maybe. Your partner running off with a longshoreman from the local port? Possibly. The ratings for reality TV shows and circulation of celebrity gossip magazines? It’s close but doesn’t quite hit the giddy lows of sitting in an office that is practically empty answering the questions of members of the public who (as far as I can tell) have been sitting at home by the phone, clutching the letter they have been sent from your company with all their might, knuckles glowing white, blood trickling from their palms to protect the phone number from a freak gust of wind or telephone number obsessed poltergeist, waiting with grim, ghoulish impatience for the moment when the phone lines will be up again so they have someone to talk to finally after another lonely Christmas. You become their son that never called, the sister that’s been ignoring your messages, the cat that threw itself under a car rather than having to spend any more time with you or that jumper you bought of ebay for them. In essence, you become either their verbal punch bag or their confidente. Both are equally as depressing.
In the office there is a mutual sense of despair but a typically British despair. No big gestures, no screaming and running around. Not even any gun play, that would be too showy, just a lot of eye rolling, eyebrow raising, shrugging, puffing out of cheeks and tutting. ‘Cuh, huh, pfffft, aye, tut….’ is the usual passing conversation, as opposed to ‘alright’ ‘yeh, you?. (to which you obviously don’t answer). There is a strange ‘we’re all in it together’ feeling, like I imagine the Blitz would have been like, except there you don’t have to worry about being torn apart by shrapnel and the pubs are open late, although in our office we get powdered sugar, which adds to the war time feel of the whole thing and we get free Flavia coffee, presumably because some of the women in facilities are shagging some G.I.’s from across the pond to save our limey asses……eventually.
And so the day drags on and all you have to comfort you is that you’ll be in again tomorrow, and you stand outside in the rain having a cigarette, freezing your extremities off and all across the road the pubs full of people, you can see their jolly faces flickering with the warm glow of the open log fire, their all singing songs and dancing on the tables, smashed on mulled wine, the laughter cuts to your bones as you have to trudge back and deal with more lonely people in a ghost office as time slows down to a gradual halt.
In conclusion, im planning on booking next Christmas off work.
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