I’m settling in yet. Place’s good, surroundings are beautiful. Boss lacks latitude but otherwise is okay. Coworkers seem nice, but we’ll see —I sit backwards to the psychologically unstable one; luckily for me, she has no pair of scissors of her own, so that to stab me from behind she would previously have to borrow them from me, which hopefully would give me time to get to her pills.
It’s two months and a half since I started. I’ve already raised the clothing standards, males’ category. My casually worn ties and ironed fit shirts have made them aware of their lousy ways —and nobody’s trying with bermudas and slogan-filled t-shirts, thank goodness.
I process files and file files and stamp stamps upon them, which is a civil servant’s dream come true.
And I work —more than my coworkers, which is not making me especially popular. While they’re chatting, I work; when they’re chilling out or eating snacks or having lunch in the kitchenette, I work; all the time they spend on Zara online, I work. I work because I have the odd idea that I get paid for doing so. Also, I really love to see my workload pile by my side vanish into nothing and then got refilled with a new one, Sisyphus’s style.
What it’s causing an impression on my colleagues, I didn’t expect it —the tidiness of my desk. They come in droves and lean over and say oh, you have everything in place, and oh, your drawers are perfectly in order, your pencils are in line, oh, how can you manage to do that? Then I point them to my Windows only-two-icons-in-desktop‘s desktop to let them go feeling superior —the guy very neat, yes, but the moron doesn’t know how to clutter his computer’s desktop yet, ha ha!