My email account at work was set to expire today. I had to get someone to go and hassle the IT staff to explain that being on maternity leave isn’t the same as having quit.
Apparently IT have sent me an email with a reference number which I’m to quote to them if my account isn’t re-activated in the next week.
An email. To my work account. Which has expired.
Fabulous.
Silly girl: “Hi, I need [some random shit] copied onto acetates. Can you do that for me?”
Me: “Yeah, sure. Give me a couple of minutes and I’ll be back with them.”
Silly girl: ”Oh, ok; I need you to hurry. My presentation is in, like, 10 minutes.”
Seriously? You really think that telling someone to hurry up is going to make them do anything other than slow. The. Fuck. Down?
Wow.
I finish work at 4.45. Which generally means that I’m out of the door by 4.40 at the latest.
Not on Friday.
At 4.35 a girl came racing down to the service desk asking for a first aider because there was a lad upstairs having a fit. *Sigh* And as all eyes turned to me I had to bite my tongue to stop myself saying “Does he realise what time it is?” Instead I asked what floor he was on.
Top floor. Of course.
And, of course, by the time I got up there and said ‘Yes, he’s having a fit’ and had sent someone to phone for an ambulance he’d pretty much finished. And right at the second that he started to come round in rushed a proper trained first aider to leap to the lad’s side and talk patronisingly to him until the paramedics arrived.
Not that that meant I could go. I had to stay there, standing around gimpily, until they’d wheeled him out so that I could fill in the terribly dramatic accident report form, the first question on which is ‘Has anyone died?’
I managed to escape at about 5pm, at any rate. And the lad was perfectly fine.
There’s an exceedingly irritating woman at work who uses the phrase ‘Sort of’ constantly. She just had a sort of phone conversation where she was trying to sort of direct someone to another sort of department.
“There’s a sort of woman there…yeah, she sort of deals with this sort of thing…she’s sort of called Gemma.”
Argh! I know I have rather a lot of difficulty in getting my words out, but for God’s sake! Think about the words before they leave your mouth, it might help with that little problem you have of being so desperately annoying.