My first week in the office - Tuesday
Today I had my first real, “oh dear, what have I done?” moment, and it came as a result of what can only be described as a minor telling off, I felt like I was 12 again.
It’s obvious these two are connected only by pride and fear, but the strength of feeling surprised me.
I’d been introduced to the “rules of engagement” on day 1, i.e. when to get there and not leave before, who to whinge to about the lack of paperclips and finally what, or rather, what not to wear. This doesn’t mean a surprise visit from Trinny and Susannah.
Shirt and jacket (Jacket!?) or polo shirt for men and jeans allowed on Fridays. It’s not Friday is it?
So today I think I’ll wear my nice linen trousers and a polo shirt, clothes I usually reserve for a Saturday morning when I’m whacking a little ball with a metal stick, this I call my “smart” outfit, and if the snooty golf clubs of south west London don’t mind then surely they’re ok for work.
Settling in for the second round of clicking aimlessly at a machine and turning my brain into a sponge-like state just the right side of mad cows disease, the guvnor saunters over and reminds me that jeans are only for Fridays.
And there it was, my immediate reaction is to defend myself, “Do you think these are jeans?” spoken with hindsight in a fairly aggressive tone, cue blushes from the boss.
There is no more powerful emotion than embarrassment and it’s a cocktail only available to beings with higher cognitive reasoning. Take a dash of shock, mix it up with a large shot of humiliation, top off with anger and serve hot.
Usually as I’m burning my lips on a piping hot gulp, I get a second to have a look at myself, and try and pull back from the more unpleasant reaction as displayed to Boss.
In the run up to starting the job I had queries along the lines of “will you need to wear a suit?” to which I’ve boldly responded, “Any job that requires me to wear a suit, I can do without!”
It appears that I’ve been a liar. All that time at home, all that autonomy has left me with oversized balls it would seem. Who am I to go shouting about what I should or shouldn’t wear in someone else’s house? Especially since they’re paying me to be there.
Even by my own admission it’s time I got with the programme, and so I shall. Tomorrow morning in as good as I have, a shirt and the only pair of suit trousers that still fit me, hopefully by looking the part my fretful attitude will be replaced by feeling the part as well.
It’s obvious these two are connected only by pride and fear, but the strength of feeling surprised me.
I’d been introduced to the “rules of engagement” on day 1, i.e. when to get there and not leave before, who to whinge to about the lack of paperclips and finally what, or rather, what not to wear. This doesn’t mean a surprise visit from Trinny and Susannah.
Shirt and jacket (Jacket!?) or polo shirt for men and jeans allowed on Fridays. It’s not Friday is it?
So today I think I’ll wear my nice linen trousers and a polo shirt, clothes I usually reserve for a Saturday morning when I’m whacking a little ball with a metal stick, this I call my “smart” outfit, and if the snooty golf clubs of south west London don’t mind then surely they’re ok for work.
Settling in for the second round of clicking aimlessly at a machine and turning my brain into a sponge-like state just the right side of mad cows disease, the guvnor saunters over and reminds me that jeans are only for Fridays.
And there it was, my immediate reaction is to defend myself, “Do you think these are jeans?” spoken with hindsight in a fairly aggressive tone, cue blushes from the boss.
There is no more powerful emotion than embarrassment and it’s a cocktail only available to beings with higher cognitive reasoning. Take a dash of shock, mix it up with a large shot of humiliation, top off with anger and serve hot.
Usually as I’m burning my lips on a piping hot gulp, I get a second to have a look at myself, and try and pull back from the more unpleasant reaction as displayed to Boss.
In the run up to starting the job I had queries along the lines of “will you need to wear a suit?” to which I’ve boldly responded, “Any job that requires me to wear a suit, I can do without!”
It appears that I’ve been a liar. All that time at home, all that autonomy has left me with oversized balls it would seem. Who am I to go shouting about what I should or shouldn’t wear in someone else’s house? Especially since they’re paying me to be there.
Even by my own admission it’s time I got with the programme, and so I shall. Tomorrow morning in as good as I have, a shirt and the only pair of suit trousers that still fit me, hopefully by looking the part my fretful attitude will be replaced by feeling the part as well.
posted by Paul Seymour at 9:45 AM
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