They let me out of the attic yesterday. I’ve graduated from data entry. They let me file things now.
Since the office is so ridiculously tiny, they are forced to store their documents in this weird garden shed in the car park. They call it the Sin Bin, and it’s stuffed to the gills with files and boxes and ye olde office chairs.
So out I went with the filing pile and my headphones, from one confined space to another. My brain must be shrinking the longer I spend here, because I seem to derive great happiness and satisfaction from menial tasks. I was in the airless room for an hour, putting the enormous pile of records into numerical order, stuffing them inside their correct folders, all the while bellowing along to Radiohead.
Through the tiny window I watched the pensioners shuffling by with their yappy dogs, the parking inspectors on the prowl. A weedy lad was on the way home from Tesco. He looked around to make sure noone was around, then proceeded to do bicep curls with his loaded shopping bags as he walked. I cackled away, before remembering that I used to do that, and wondered if some sicko in a shed had been watching me too.
Then it rained, in that way that Scotland has a habit of doing. The sun had been sashaying around all morning, just long enough to make you think it was going to be a nice day, then suddenly it’s grey and chucking down again. So I stayed another half hour and had a little snooze.
It’s a pity this job finishes up on Friday, just when I am getting to like that shed. Someone could make it into a reality TV show. The concept would be simple: Ewan McGregor and I get locked inside the Sin Bin for ten weeks. They’d have to screen it late at night.