Backache

I’m back.

I have been working in this Call Centre for over a decade. Every day is much like the last. Boring. Dull. Despite the impression I create in this blog, nothing really happens.

It seems to wait until I am on holiday.

Call Centre Tony has applied for a job in Credit Control and could end up knocking on doors, “Just call me ‘Septic Knuckles’”.

Bernard has adopted a new management Guru. On his office wall he has a full-length photograph of him shaking hands with Sam Allardyce at a corporate event. Big Sam looks very uncomfortable.

The Catalogue That Cannot Be Named has been successful in taking over a Door-to-Door Catalogue That Cannot be Named.

Brenda has taken great delight in bombarding my mailbox with a ‘heads up’ about the appraisals of my team members. I’m way behind everyone else and Bernard wants them finished quickly. Honk. Honk.

Tony reckons Ian’s shagging Janice.

Simon, the Craig David looky-likey has had the week off sick due to another bout of RSI of the jaw. Wendy from HR has been on my case saying that she is concerned that his specially designed mouth-piece has not been ordered.

Tizzy has lost her ‘little grey book’ with all of her contact numbers in and has asked for counselling.

Sooty has sent a dozen pointless spreadsheets he wants completing before the end of the week as Bernard has asked him to ‘shadow’ me.


This time last week I was in Cyprus, drinking Long Island Ice tea, getting slowly bladdered.

A month’s rain fell in one day. I didn’t care.

A pigeon shat on me as I looked at Turkey across the green-line. I didn’t care.

Iraq was only 45 minutes way by Intercontinental Ballistic Missile, or spud-gun, depending on who you believe; I didn’t care.

Now it seems I’m back to the war zone. I'm a solipsist - get me out of here.