Posts Tagged ‘office’

Working with my Great Grandfather

Friday, July 3rd, 2015

Two weeks ago, I started yet another role within the City of Subiaco. This time, not only did I move desk, I also moved office to the other side of Rokeby Road. The council rents an office space in a strange orange clad building that from the outside appears to wish it was located in the mediterranean. It has an internal atrium space with a balcony and the front windows dream of housing a fair maiden.

In reality it has been divided into clunky offices, some of which can only be accessed via stairs and it has some serious heating issues.

230 Rokeby Road

230 Rokeby Road

Despite all of this, I am feeling a very odd sense of pride working here because in the years around 1918, my great grandfather and great grandmother lived at 230 Rokeby Road. Obviously their house wasn’t this ridiculous office block and was most likely a very small cottage with not a lot surrounding it, but every day as I walk into work and see the number on the letter box I wonder how on earth this happened.

I very much doubt that William thought, “In 100 years time, my great granddaughter is going to monitor the City of Subiaco’s Twitter accounts from my lounge room.” And on my return from Manchester, I didn’t expect to work in his old house. Yet somehow this has happened and once again William and I have crossed paths three generations apart.

I also bet he didn’t think that Advanced Hair would be operating from his second storey and that these good looking fellas would be hanging on the wall.

Advanced Hair, yeah yeah.

Advanced Hair, yeah yeah.

Neighbours.

Monday, July 28th, 2014

Since moving apartments I have missed watching the daily activities of my neighbours across the road. I no longer look straight into other apartments so I can’t spy on people as easily. My balcony does allow for a bit of snooping if you lean over the edge and look across courtyards. Night time allows for easier viewing when lights turn highlighting what is going on inside. The other night, Sir Pubert Gladstone and I were chillin’ on my balcony when we spotted an unusual sight in an office on the ground floor of another apartment block. From a distance it appeared that someone had fallen asleep or potentially died while typing away at their desk. We were slightly concerned for this person’s health and thanks to the impressive digital zoom on my camera we were able to make a closer inspection. 

Hard worker.

Hard worker.

Turns out, they weren’t dead or asleep. It was a blow-up doll with impressive assets. She is still working away in the office and I suspect is a valued employee. I might get a blow-up co-worker for my work – every office needs one.

Damion’s Bag

Wednesday, June 11th, 2014

People say that you can tell a lot about a person based on the items contained within their bag. Today in the office, we had the honour of Damion, local comedian/all-round-funny-guy’s, arrival. Damion doesn’t do entering rooms quietly. Everyone is instantly aware of his presence as soon as his key unlocks the door and he steps inside.

“Hello! Hello! How are we all?”

Damion likes sitting with the ‘Laugh Out Loud Comedy Crew,” a team consisting of Damion, Hannah (graphic designer) and myself. Mostly this ‘crew’ exists because Hannah and I listen to his stories, laugh at his jokes and do work for him in exchange for tickets to comedy shows located in towns an hour’s drive away. Occasionally another person will be involuntarily included in the mix, but whatever table we are (well, Damion is) seated at is declared as “Top Table.” An honour and beyond.

Today, upon his arrival, Damion began emptying out items from his bag and suddenly there was an array of miscellaneous goods scattered all over the desk. Hannah and I watched with amazement as the mix of items became increasingly more intriguing. I had to take a photo.

Damion's things.

Damion’s things.

An electric toothbrush, his passport, a pathetically short iPhone charging cable, an empty sticky-tape roll, a single battery, deodorant and a parking ticket. Plus Damion has the same red Moleskin diary as me, which will one day cause issue when one of us accidentally picks up the wrong one. What these items say about Damion is open to interpretation but he is clearly escaping Manchester with his toothbrush and passport in order to avoid paying his parking fine.

In the Office

Monday, May 13th, 2013

Exciting times in the world of Zaum, me and all things Manchester – I am writing to you from my new office space! Extraordinarily uncomfortable faux-leather dining chairs, home-related distractions and general boredom while working in my apartment have encouraged me to seek new office territory. There are a lot of small, shared studio spaces around Manchester, most offering space to work at really low prices. I signed up to join a space called The Classroom – a white walled, school-desk furnished work space that is used by freelancers of various disciplines. For £24 a month, I can come in here and use the desks, printer, kitchen, and internet on any weekday from 9am to 6.30pm. I am yet to really meet anyone but I have only been here for half an hour. It’ll happen. I can smell great potential.

Very Confusing.

Wednesday, March 28th, 2012

There have been many moments during my time in Paris where I have felt the need to slap myself because that is the only way I could possibly come back to earth and be able to reassess what was happening. One of those moments is right NOW. Allow me to vent.

After having received my Visa to live in Paris for another year, I returned to France and then had to send another stack of paper into the immigration department. Despite fellow Visa-Applicants telling me that I wouldn’t hear back for months, I received a letter in the mail saying they had received my pieces of paper and that they may, or may not, contact me again. Excellent.

Yesterday I was having a really great day – the sun was shining, I had started a new sewing project, everything was oh-so-lovely. I then went to my local indoor markets to buy food for dinner where I am fairly certain the vegetable shop man cursed on me by trying to hit on me while selling me carrots. After he had asked me if I lived far from here and if I lived alone, I then quickly paid and returned home. Upon my return, I checked the mail and discovered two letters – one from Orange, my useless telephone company, and the other from the immigration department. Wow.

The Immigration department appear to be working in some sort of super-speed power drive because they had already set a date for me to go and have a medical examination, hand in more pieces of paper and be interviewed, and this date is next week. WHAT ON EARTH?! Since when did any sort of bureaucratic process in France happen so quickly? Anyway, the big problem is that I will be in England on the allocated date and therefore cannot have my lungs x-rayed. So today I rode down to the Immigration office to ask whether or not I could change the date.

The office has the appearance of a shelter or squat and is an old, dirty, concrete building that clearly no one cares about. Only foreigners have to go there so why invest money in it? The security man at the door did a thorough check of my bag before asking what I was needing. When I explained that I wanted to change the date of my appointment, he said I have to wait until AFTER my appointment to make a new date. I looked at him like he had just told me the Queen of England is really a man and questioned whether or not I would get in trouble if I didn’t turn up to my appointment. No, it’s fine. Right.

Most of my brain believes that there is no way this can really be true, but there’s part of me that realises I am in France and so there is a high probability something this strange could be the case. I have spent the afternoon trying to call the office and get a second opinion but no one is answering the phone. At first I thought it was just lunch time but now I am thinking it is an exceptionally long lunch. Oh, and their website isn’t working properly so I can’t look at that either. I love France.

How Rude

Monday, August 8th, 2011

Yesterday Tom and I walked through Montmartre and I noticed an interesting sign outside a building. I immediately realised it was an advertising agency and looked them up when I got home. I liked what I saw. The company is called “Les Grot Mots” which means “The Swear Words”. Looking at their website, I can now see why.