It’s Not You, It’s Me. No, It’s You.


Okay, the truth is, I don’t hate my job. Actually, I kind of like this job. I am one of the fortunate few people who has a job that actually allows me to excel.

I mean, think how valuable that is. If I was a floor sweeper, I would sweep that floor clean every day and be proud to take my wages at the end of an honest day’s work, but the truth is that you can’t claim to be the best floor sweeper. You can suck, but the ascent up the gradient of skill peaks early—the most you can be is competent. Once the trash is gone, you can’t go further than that. The difference between an excellent floor sweeper and a merely adequate floor sweeper is negligible.

I am lucky, and so is my ego, that I get a job where I can actually be excellent. I can be one of the best. I can. And often, I do.

By the way, I even got nominated for it. Vote for me if you would like development to come to your village.

I whine and moan a lot about coming to work, but it’s not the job that  I hate, it’s the office.


I hate my office area. First of all, I have a very sensitive thing in my ear that cannot stand MOR music. If you want to know what MOR music is, it is pretty much any inspipid, soulless, dilute, overwashed, bloodless, whitebread pap that Radio One plays. I love music, man. I love music which moves me, hard music, music with verve, music with power, music which is so much music that it has a life of its own. I can’t stand anything that can be played softly in the background when other mental stuff is going on. It offends me. It should shut up. Being in a room with such music makes me feel like I am at a party with a bunch of elderly professors trying to politely ignore a fart.

Well, they is ALWAYS someon playing shit like that at my office space. Always. If it isn’t coming from the TV, it’s coming from someone’s computer or a radio somewhere.

And it isn’t just the noise. It’s the office tourists—you know, those idle small-talkers who wander around the cubicles looking for  people with work to interrupt with inane questions like, “Is that a bad idea? “ or – and this is the absolute worst—reading what is on your T-shirt and then asking something witless about it. Say if your T-shirt says, “Are You Ready?” they want you to stop the work you are paid millions (well, I am paid millions) of shillings for to answer them when they say, “Ready for what, harnk! Harnk! Harnk!”


And that look in their eyes when they see that you are probably not going to laugh along with them, that creeping desperation, the possibility that they will soon be forced to acknowledge that it wasn’t hilarious what they just said and that you are not going to laugh, it’s the same kind of look that makes boys take pity when first tasked with slaughtering livestock and leads to the necessity of a second go.

So basically what I’m saying is, I don’t hate my job. My job is really cool. I just hate this office.

Lately my job status has changed a bit, which means I don’t actually have to be here a lot of the time. So I don’t. I stay away as much as I can. I go to search for empty rooms (on occasion you will find that there is an unused conference room you can use) or I go to the caferteria, or I go to the toilet (when things are really desperate) or I just wander around the parking lot then out of the gate and round the block scribbling into my notebook because the idea that a writer might need some silence and space to concentrate was completely left out of the planning of me sitting here at this office.


Sometimes, I actually leave the whole office. I go to look for coffeeshops. Take my notebook and pencil, or my laptop, and go find a café. But Mebanas won’t be one of those cafes any more.