As some of you may know, I have now finally moved from the Orrible Orifice(http://blurbfromtheburbs.blogspot.com/2006/06/my-orrible-orifice-i-hate-my-office.html) into a very swanky, brand-spanking new office on the other side of the university campus.
Being brand new, we are currently into that heavenly state of no-one yet knowing that we exist. This gives us ample opportunity to invent our own way of doing things before the cardigans dwelling in the bowels of bureaucracy insist on forms, policies and permission signatures for things we've already gone and done.
It also means that we're still letting in slightly grotty men all day. Any bloke wearing steel caps and holding a clipboard is pretty likely to be allowed to wander through our academic haven at will, especially if he's going to clear out the moving boxes or finally fix the stupid heating system. There's one chap, however, I'd like to have up here (apart from Love Chunks of course), but he doesn't exist.
The Static Carpet Cling Man. Our brand new carpet, apart from reeking of glue the Ramones could only dream of, is a very fertile static cling environment. My black trousers are particularly affected; so much so that by mid-morning I've collected every loose grey fibre, white cotton threads, assorted stryofoam crumbs and dust bunnies around the bottom hems. From a distance they look like something Elvis would have been proud to wear in his Las Vegas period, but not if he was required to shake anyone's hand.
Ping-zap-pop! "Oops, sorry about that Bernie," I said earlier this morning as I watched his eyebrows melt. For some reason I seem to get a fair old electrofield going just walking across the floor.
"Queen B you're a great boss you really are, but it's best if I just leave the papers here on your desk rather than risk actually touching you - that moonstone and silver necklace might be too good a conducter of electricity."
It also affects me when I'm on my own. Ping-zap-pop! 'Stupid bloody brushed aluminium "Oh I'm So Trendy I Wish I was Stainless Steel" poxy stinking door handle!'
Ping-zap-pop! 'Well how am I meant to fill up the kettle if I can't touch the damn taps?'
Ping-zap-pop! 'That's it - I'm off to the Whore Amore shop down the road at lunchtime for some sturdy rubber trousers!'
Not surprisingly, I didn't go there in the end. Wearing kitchen gloves whilst typing and stretching two extra-large condoms over my shoes has worked a treat instead and is obviously much cheaper. Gives the visitors a bit of a thrill as well.