Don’t Panic

Easier said than done eh Corporal Jones of Dad’s Army.

I have lived with panic attacks now since my early teens, for the most part I can deal with the signs of them impending and head them off at the pass with not quite consummate ease. Except of course when I can’t and it all goes horribly wrong.

Case in point, work conference 200 miles away from home, so a double overnight stay. Didn’t sleep a wink despite driving and being tired. Cue the panic, cue the nausea, cue the sweating, dizzy spells. My hands are tingling now just thinking about it. Lucky I have a very supportive set of colleagues at the moment who were able to talk me down from many a metaphorical ledge that I’d reached the edge of at approximately 3am in the cold morning light.

The conference itself went fine. Of course it did. Will that stop me panicking at similar events going forward. Probably not no. Why? I can only venture a guess that when things get that bad and the physical and mental combine to give you the “night of your life” the rational becomes like a mythical dragon that was banished long ago. So you can’t say “Well it was fine that time before” because your internal arsehole mind replies back with “But what if it’s not this time”

Real Ramblings of my Arsehole Mind in panicsville:-

“What if I piss myself in front of everyone?”
“What if I shit myself in front of everyone?”
“What if everyone hates me?”
“What if I don’t know anyone?”
“What if there is someone there I know?”
“What if they find out I’m dumb”
“What if I never sleep again and crash the car?”
All these hits and many more….

I have further challenges in the next few months and in a effort to quell the Arsehole Mind I know I will have to consult tutors and managers to tell them of my fears for situations. I figure its best to be upfront so that people can at best help or at least be aware. However its a double edged sword because these consultations will almost certainly be my first communications with people. I want to convey enthusiasm, interest hell even talent. The Arsehole Mind forces me to display weakness, self involvement and a lack of confidence, straight out. The social equivalent of meeting the girl of your dreams and crapping your kicks before you’ve said “Hello”

Maybe thats a real worry after all.

Don’t Panic

Friday Fiction: The Lift

“17th floor please.”
“Oh, in to the frying pan eh”
“Well I told them, I said there is no way that was going to work.”
“You got nothing to worry about then have you… Why does this lift take so long?”
“Maybe the hamster died!”
“Hamster?”
“Yeah the one in the wheel that powers all three lifts!”
“Finally! Movement, if you can call it that. When is your meeting? Do you have time?”
“I have about 10 minutes”
“Should just about make it then. You know he won’t let you in if you are late don’t you?”
“I heard that but I thought it was just a rumour”

Fifth Floor, doors closing lift going up

“Morning…”

Seventh Floor, doors opening.
Doors closing, going up.

“God I hate him.”
“Watkinson, yeah. I saw you gazing at the floor”
“The guy is a idiot. Part of the reason it all failed, but will he get any flack?”
“No course not, he’ll get promoted.”
“I’d laugh but it’s all too true. Lets hope no-one gets in from nine!”
“Here he goes again with the totally unjustified hatred of the workers of floor nine”
“Unjustified it’s not unjustified.”
“Steve, if you choose to have sexual intercourse, no less, next to the photocopier and then get caught it’s hardly their fault.”
“Hmm. They got me suspended for…”
“9 months.. Yes I know, you’ve told me. At least once, maybe six hundred times”
“Yeah well it’s not like she was worth it.”
“You are only bitter cos you got toner dust on your bum”
“That stuff doesn’t come off… My wife noticed.”
“What did she say when you got suspended?”
“She didn’t stick around. All because of those bastards on nine.”
“Yes OK Steve. Whatever you say.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Loud wasn’t it? These lifts are clunky but that was something else.”
“Now the lights.”
“Hang on I’ve got my lighter in here somewhere.”
“I thought you’d given up.”
“Anyone would think you wanted to stay in the dark. Here we go”
“Should I press the alarm button?”
“Now would be the very best time I would think.”
“Did you hear anything?”
“Nope. Try again.”
“Still nothing. For fucks sake”
“Don’t worry I’m sure someone will be along in a minute, Watkinson knows we are in here”
“Oh yes!…. Do you have any signal on your phone?”
“No.. I don’t think so..let me check.. Oh fuck that’s hot.”
“Oh well done Steve. The end with the flame is hot! Good luck finding it in the dark down there.”
“Move over I think you are stood on it.”
“I move, it creaks.”
“It’s only creaking, besides it’s not like you weigh anything”
“Ok but I’m scared.”
“I’m sure it will be fine, better when it’s not pitch black eh Suze”
“Ok ok, You found it?”
“Yep got it.”
“That’s better”
“Suze?”
“Yes Steve”
“Are you holding my hand?”
“I’m scared, I hate these lifts. I’m sorry I’ll let go if you like”
“No it’s ok. I kinda like it.”
“Good as long as it’s not weirding you out”
“No not at all….”
“…. Steve…”
“Yeah”
“I have often thought what it would have been like if it were me by the photocopier. With you I mean.”
“Wha… Wait it’s the doors, they’re opening.”

Ponderosa elevator


The beautiful Captivating Kitten has given me a lift this week by participating in #FridayFiction here with another dialogue only story which encouraged me to write this one. My earlier dialogue drama is here if you liked this one. The Resident Weeble has something good in the offing, but it’s not ready yet.

Friday Fiction: The Lift

Poem: The Stone

Everyday, I place it on,
The stone around my neck,
Although the cord that it hangs from is not tight,
It suffocates my brain.
My freedom lost for eight hours,
Can’t think, cannot express.
I am not me.
The stone it casts a wicked spell,
I am someone elses.
I represent ideals that aren’t mine.
I smile at those I despise.
The stone keeping my hate weighed down inside.
The stone tells them who I’m paid to be.
Not who I am.
Now..

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Poem: The Stone

Poem: Gravy Train (Bitter)

Am I me, the me with the tie.
Or are we four conspirators in one big lie,
Dressed in fresh suit,
Beard neatly trimmed,
The hour of judgement about to begin,
Hypothetical scenarios,
For which I have incorrect answers,
From across the desk shoots judgemental glances,
“If black was white and the sky was the sea”,
“But it’s not” Say I. “same as you are you, and not me.”
“But if this was that and that was this..”
There, right there, is the point I missed.

If all your questions are not as they seem,
All this pantomime may well be a dream,
Don’t judge me from that side of the table,
I am a person, not a label,
I’m not playing the game anymore,
With people who don’t acknowledge the score,
Corporate world, built on a game,
Let me off the of gravy train.

Poem: Gravy Train (Bitter)

Work? Optional!

So todays prompt from the lovely folks at WordPress asks the question would you work if money was out of equation.

Well regular readers will know I love my current job and all of my colleagues are an absolute delight to be around for 6 hours every day. If had no monetary reward I’d still want to be with them every second that was available to me. My work is the reason I live. It’s as important to me as my solid grasp of sarcasm.

If money was out of the equation I would still work, for less time and for a vastly different company in a vastly different field. You see I do have quite high standards for myself, I want to do a good job, be the go-to guy. Be trusted to do a excellent job and leave the customer feeling more satisfied than someone who has had a 48hr free pass to a high end brothel. But where I currently work I am not trusted to order so much as tea and biscuits without managerial approval.

It is like being at school. We are treated like kids, some respond in such a way. Some like me dream rather sadistically (and this is the piece that will be quoted on the news when I finally snap) of disembowelling the vast majority of my co-workers with only a paperclip. (It can be done I have blueprints)

Weapon of Choice
Weapon of Choice

In any given year there are approximately 253 working days for me. 1518 hours a year if I work until I’m 65 (I’ll be dead by then) 45 years working that’s 68310 hours in total.

68310 hours surrounded by people who I have nothing in common with other than a shared work place.
68310 hours surrounded by people who know nothing of what I like (nor me of them)
68310 of dancing to someone elses tune.

I’m tempted to leave right now. But it’s the money that keeps me here or rather the need to have a roof over my fair bonce. I would love to throw this away and do something that helps people, makes me feel good too. Use my 68310 hours for good instead of evil. So wordpress if you want to take money out of the equation and pay my bills I’ll gladly accept your offer of work.. I await your confirmation.

Work? Optional!

Poem: Canary

Every year the chillers break,
Every year us workers bake,
Yes it is a sweaty mess,
On the corporate ladder to success,
It’s hard to have blue sky thoughts,
When you are sitting in your boxer shorts,
Sweaty arms, sweaty back,
Sweaty balls, sweaty crack,
Windows you can’t open or close,
Farts from the 80’s all in your nose,
It’s like this throughout the seasons,
Wash everything for hygiene reasons,
Melting hot Summer,
Drafts in the Fall,
Frostbite in Winter,
Spring never happens at all,
Corporate patsies, uniform lines,
Swear they had it better down the mines,
You think I’m joking? Take back what I said?
We had a Canary here. It’s definitely dead.

Part of the WordPress Daily Post: Seasonal Scents

Poem: Canary

Birthdays: Women and Children only

If it’s your birthday today, Happy Birthday from all of us here at SudoOne. (Just me then) I hope you get all the gifts you want and a cake especially for you. Unless you are a male over the age of 18. In which case, happy birthday mate. I haven’t got you anything because I’m not your Mum. If you are lucky I might buy you a pint. Men don’t do birthdays.

The male arrangement for birthdays.

I buy a beer, pie or coffee, if birthdays are mentioned at all. If not, all the men I know carry on as if their birthday was nothing. Don’t get me wrong, I refuse to work on my birthday. But this has more to do with me disliking work than anything else. Today is a work colleagues birthday. He is way over 18. He spent £50 feeding people who aren’t his friends, some of them hate him and yet will eat the free food (I didn’t). He works on phones, spent the majority of the morning telling customers it was his birthday. Now I know you have to build a rapport with the great unwashed but when your customer wants to do what he needs to do and hang up (Sounds like I work on a Sex line) your ‘special day’ matters diddly squat and mentioning it can come across as unprofessional.

Food rituals in the workplace are bullshit too. Its a unwritten rule that you have to bring stuff for your birthday, and you are judged on the quality of food you get, catering for all allergies in the office and watching out for those arseholes who will double dip the breadsticks. You are therefore a mixture of You, Jamie Oliver and Robocop.

I like other peoples birthdays. It gives me an opportunity to show the women and children in my life how much they mean to me. Really thats a grand total of three or so gifts (Daughter, Mother and the official photographer of the New York Yankees etc) But those are people I care about and people who I know appreciate what I got them. Not some people I happen to sit in a building with. Birthdays should be banned from the workplace. Which brings me to Yaya Toure.

Yaya Toure protegiendo el balon
Yaya Toure (centre) during a previous spell at Barca. Birthday Cake (not pictured)
I know this is a ruse. Yaya even tried to point it out himself. But for those who don’t know, Toure plays for Manchester City FC and his agent is saying that he will leave because they didn’t wish him Happy Birthday. In all reality he wants to leave because he can get a big bundle of cash from Barcelona. Thats fine with me. (Man doing job wants more money for working). However he does need to sack his agent for the “Birthday” plan because Yaya now looks like a bit of a dick. I hope he stays at Man City just for all the Birthday related chants he’ll get.

My birthday is in June by the way. Hint..

Birthdays: Women and Children only