This is a little something I wrote today about the travails of working from the sixth floor of my office building. Not a very pleasant experience, as is obvious!
If hell were located at the top of a six-storey building, do you know how many steps it would take to get you there?
114.
That’s right! Exactly 114. I should know; I’ve counted them. I count them every day as I walk up to my own personal hell — the sixth floor.
It’s the start of a fresh working day. I get to work and the day begins with a “by-now-expected” phenomenon. The lift’s not working.
I suck in my sagging gut and prepare for the task ahead. By now, I know what to expect, as I get closer to the fiery pits of my very own version of Mount Doom. The air gets thinner and the temperature begins to rise. There are a LOT fewer women to ogle at.
I struggle past the fifth floor, almost on my hands and knees now. I know that somewhere in life these long treks that I make every day now are going to stand me in good stead. But that is a distant promise. In the present, I’m too washed out to give a tiny rat’s ar*@!
Finally, I’m there. I’m so busy trying to catch my breath that I am not even shamed at the pitiful state I find myself in at 27! I walk in, and I’m suddenly slapped in the face by the all-encompassing heat. I look desperately at the AC behind my workstation; it’s still not working.
I wipe the sweat off my brow and get down to the day’s work. I have a review to incorporate, a storyboard to submit by the end of the day.
It’s mid-afternoon now and things are going fine. And that’s surprising considering I am in hell! Maybe Satan’s called in sick, maybe he’s looking elsewhere!
Maybe I spoke too soon. The lights flicker. Phut. That was my PC shutting down. Just when I was on the last page of my review. The closest AC (situated at a football field’s distance from me) and also the only one functioning, wheezes out its last few breaths of cold air. The electricity’s done the bunk – again! A stink emanates a couple of bays away. Someone let rip a stinker — again!
I grind my teeth, bite my lip, sigh and leave my seat to take a break.
Ironically, while I know I’m going to have strong legs from all the walking up the steps, I also find myself drinking a lot more coffee, thanks to these forced breaks. I think I might also take up smoking pretty soon.
I’m done with my break. My breath smells of coffee and “bummed-off” ciggies. I move hopefully towards the lift. But no luck. Some poor sod’s stuck between floors — again!
I guess I’ll just walk up.
20, 21, 22…
