An Office Worker And A Gentleman

As I prepare to reintroduce my body to the concept of work outside of festivals tonight, I look back upon the last time I tried to do so. It went a little bit like this....

My tale of woe began with signing up to a recruitment agency. I didn't particularly need the money, I just rather enjoyed the prospective glamour that lay ahead. You know how FBI agents get to waltz in (I'd imagine they waltz, whereas the CIA opt for the foxtrot) and say "I'm with the Bureau"- flash a badge. I got to stroll in and announce "I'm with the agency"- flash a smile. Not quite as exciting as I'd hoped, but I persevered, and they came through with the offer of short-term employment.

So one day, as I was stuffing envelopes (trust me, it's not nearly as sexy as one could imply with well placed innuendo and a solitary raised eyebrow), I wondered what would ultimately be my primary form of passing the time. A succession of paper-cuts? Or the fact that I'd been left in a small room with sellotape, scissors, stickers, a child's inquisitive temperament/natural propensity for mischief and no adult supervision? One of these was likely to prove my undoing, and I was looking forward to finding out which.

Hours passed. Envelopes were stuffed, sealed and labelled. Quite surprisingly, the paper-cuts remained a rare and minor inconvenience. I was beginning to think I may get through the day unscathed. I was curiously numbed by this. However, as it turned out, the mystery of what would bring about my downfall was soon to be resolved, and it was to be a dark horse competitor that won out.

The complete structural failure of my box-fort was, in hindsight, not so shocking. Its trapping me underneath, however, was not entirely expected. Perhaps a more physically gifted soul may have had the tools to fashion an escape, yet for me this was, I feared, to be my tomb. As time passed, I reluctantly resigned myself to my fate. I befriended a rogue envelope whom I named "Wilson", and, in time, grew to love my prison. I attempted to integrate myself into the native society, hoping to woo a pretty piece of paper I had caught sight of across the room. Nervous glances and one-sided small talk were the order of the day. Alas, it was not to be. I could sense her interest- that much was not for debate- yet she was the child of the paper king, and fated to be with another. I graciously held my tongue and accepted that I would forever be an outsider in my new land. Wilson eased my turmoil with his rapier wit and calming demeanour. He had grown to be a valued companion, and I believe his presence allowed for my survival as long as this.

Yet now, some 79 minutes later, I must leave you. Whoever you are that has found this journal, I thank you. Sadly, I know that much of my writings perished in the great draft breeze of 28 minutes ago. Wilson only survived as I held him close to my breast. It brought some curious new feelings to the surface for us both I believe, and caused a few awkward moments in our relationship, but we're past that now. I fear my time is running short, as the ink in my pen appears to be running dry. I trust you shall see to it that my remains are dealt with appropriately. Treat Wilson kindly. He has been a loyal confidante to me, and I'm sure my passing will have been hard for him to bear. If I can leave you, and indeed the world (should they serialise my tale in extracts in The Guardian, as stipulated by my last will and testament, contained within Wilson), it is the knowledge th....