This attachment period is an exercise in patience.
They lied. It is not about training you. They couldn’t care less about training you. What they are very interested in, however, is ensuring you are bored to death. Or at the very least, in a vegetative state. Because what other reason could they possibly have for asking you to show up to work at 8 a.m (8. 30, after tense negotiations) only to sit at a desk, staring blankly at the computer while you flirt with the ghost of yester night’s dream? The computer, which, as fate would have it, has no internet access, nor does it offer any activity more thrilling than repeatedly, pointlessly clicking refresh on the desktop.
Eventually, after around four hours, 9 a.m rolls around, and you say a short prayer of gratitude that time is speeding by. For the new readers, this is heavily sarcastic. You get up from your desk and do a few lunges, because your butt cheeks have gone to sleep. And then you sit back down and continue to throw mutinous looks at the little icon at the bottom of the computer. No Internet access.
It is in this position, decomposing slowly, that the boss finds you when he finally elects to sanctify you with the gift of his presence, a few minutes past 11. Which is early, by his standards. Curt greetings are exchanged. Repeated, pointless clicks on the desktop are abandoned, windows are minimized, and silence descends in the office, broken only by the occasional striking of a space bar somewhere, or the beeps of 64 unnecessary Whatsapp messages landing in someone’s phone. Probably from a class group. Which probably has a ridiculous name. Possibly something with the word kings in it.
The boss, in his infinite wisdom, did not even have the common courtesy to hire an office assistant with any pretext to aesthetic appeal. For the new readers, I am attempting- and succeeding- to call the office assistant unattractive. Perhaps I am just the wrong beholder. Someone somewhere might be singing Sautisol songs to her. And scouring the country for a Coke bottle with her name on it. Still, no aesthetic appeal whatsoever. Which obviously means that there is no one within a hundred feet to objectify. And that is unbelievably tragic. What is the world coming to if the office can no longer be relied on to be the home of inappropriate dressing?
This attachment period will be the death of me.
I fear that it will cost me my sense of humour, my ability to overlook bullshit, and the three social skills I have managed to acquire thus far. If this is really what gainful employment is like, then I have a very bright future in deliberate idleness.
For the new readers, here’s a short summary of my rant; I fucking hate it here.