The bomb disposal unit swooped at some ungodly hour. The fumigators tagged along too, as did the garbage squad, herbicide experts, furniture movers and interior decorators. Quite a team, when you think about it.
One worker wore gloves to protect her skin from toxic matter that may have lain undetected for many months. Or so I was told, or so I may have imagined.
Sorry if I’m hazy on details, but I was absent for most of Friday’s Operation LEO (Less Embarrassing Office). I only pieced things together hours after stumbling to work, a little grouchy, a little bleary-eyed, a little resentful at getting out of bed. My usual self, in other words, but with extra elements of fuzziness.
Those elements expanded and joined together in a gooey mass of ultra fuzziness when I entered my office shortly after 10 a.m.
Not being a morning person I’m often confused at this hour, wondering who I am, what I am and where I am. That last question took on fresh urgency today.
First there was the smell. It was sweet and antiseptic, a bit like air fresheners in a toilet or a car. Not the usual whiff of yesterday’s coffee or banana nut muffin.
Then there was all this exposed wood around my keyboard. Defoliants and herbicides had obviously been sprayed generously on the paper forest that had been my desk. A 2012 calendar had suddenly emerged from the depths, along with an unopened pay packet.
I could see the teak top greedily gulping air.
My office bombsite was no more. Anti-explosives experts had deactivated several mayhem-causing devices, rearranging documents on my trays which were spilling over, while the garbage squad had carried away bags of prehistoric council minutes and other detritus.
And that wasn’t all. Something was different about the layout. Oh yes, a metal filing cabinet had been artfully placed to my right, making me wonder what was there before.
The operation was in its final stages when I arrived. As I sat bemused, an interior decorator entered with my log memento from a summer trip up the Athabasca River and fitted it above the wall map that stares at me each day. It provided a top frame, turning clutter into something decorative.
So there you have it, I’m now settling quite well into my new habitat, blaming others whenever I can’t find a scrap of paper. Never underestimate the benefits of a scapegoat.
Some things survived the operation. For instance, my filing system of contacts. It consists of yellow and blue post-its, pink slips and notepad paper attached randomly to the corkboard next to my desk. While an interesting collage, it is far from foolproof.
Still, I’ve always got my backup Marion Properzi system, which usually works a treat and goes like this:
“Marion, have you heard of X and do you know his number?”
So simple, so effective.
I’m also happy to report that nothing on the board behind my head was disturbed. I still have my restaurant menus and poems close to my soul – one about love, the other about pomposity.
Then there is my favourite flying pig. It has been a loyal companion since I arrived here, stuck to the ceiling vent. Nobody knows its story, but as I write it is still there, likely to survive us all.
Finally, a word of caution to anyone wishing to inspect the aftermath of the operation. Do so quickly.
I fear the paper virus is making a particularly aggressive comeback.
