All Good Photocopiers Go To Heaven

It was freezing cold and pouring with rain on the way to work this morning. These conditions are not conducive to a happy Otternator at the best of times, and they were not helped by the fact that I am still trying to work out what time to get the bus in the morning from the new flat. It's a much more complicated system than this sounds - you have to take into account not only the bus timetable, but also the weather conditions, whether it is a bus that passes the local college (if so, the bus will be packed with students and you won't be able to sit down for twenty minutes and you can feel people judging you by the Glee/Dolly Parton playlist visible on your ipod) and many other small but potentially journey-altering details. 


I was already a little stressed and really all I wanted was to drag myself pathetically to my desk and begin my day in relative peace. So naturally, when I had barely had taken my coat off and was accosted by a colleague demanding to know about the photocopier in my department, I accepted it (with a mental sigh) as an expected chain of events. The universe does like to test my patience sometimes.

Colleague: I heard this photocopier wasn't working properly.
 
Me: I really wouldn't know. I just sit near it.
 
JanetteFM: (singing in background at what can only be described at glass-shattering volume) Oooh, I never can say goodbye boy...
 
Colleague: But So-And-So said that it (consulting paper in hand) 'chewed up paper' and the 'print quality is poor'?
 
My colleague says this in a rather snippy tone which suggests that the photocopier is like a bad puppy who has just wee'd all over her flowerbeds, and I am some kind of careless owner who is wantonly encouraging Photocopier Puppy to do this, with a blatant disrespect for anyone else's printing requirements. 

Me: I don't know. Maybe? Mine have all been fine.
 
Colleague: Right, so, did you see whether the print was poor quality? Or whether the paper was chewed?

She glares sternly, first at me, then at the Photocopier Puppy, who seems, against the laws of inanimate objects, to be trying to edge guiltily behind the shredder.

JanetteFM: (banging pen on desk to provide the loudest possible rhythmical accompaniment) I never can say goodbye, no no no, no no no...
 
Me: I honestly could not tell you. I don't check everyone's documents. And it's not, like, MY photocopier.
 
This is all taking place before 9.30am, which is the World of Otternator is an unacceptable time to be doing anything, far less doing it so loudly that the delicate and treasured ornaments on your desk shelf are quivering. I try to compose myself by taking a couple of deep, soothing breaths and thinking about the lovely hot beverage I'm going to make myself. Futurecoffee, futurecoffee... Repeat as needed.

Colleague: (peering into drawers of photocopier) There's a box of paper here.
 
Me: Fascinating. I should start-
 
JanetteFM: (really getting into the swing of it) OooOOh ooOOOh...BABY!

Colleague: (not listening to either me or JanetteFM) Why is there a box of paper here?
 
Me: (pinches nose) I have no idea. Listen, I just got in. I really need to-
 
Colleague: (as if she's doing me a favour) You know what, I'll find out and let you know. 
 
Me: But none of this is anything to do with me. At all. I don't even work in Facilities. Also, I don't care.
 
Colleague: (calling over shoulder) I'll be back later on.
 
Me: (rests head on desk in despair) 'Kay.
 
This goes to show that no matter what I say, no one listens. This is probably for the best, all things considered, but it can sometimes be a little soul-destroying. It does mean I can make up some really inventive swear words, so I guess every cloud has a silver lining. Besides, the photocopier hasn't chewed any of my documents up yet, so I'm holding on to the smug belief that I'm its favourite person. Score.
 

Of Polar Bears and iPods and Cabbages and Kings

Now, you'll probably have figured out by now that I don't really think like your average person. I love references and enjoy quoting various films/tvshows/books/stand up, on average, about a zillion times a day, possibly to the point of overkill. My memory for such things is incredible. And yet I get distracted fairly easily and often reach the bottom of the stairs only to find myself puzzled as to why I descended in the first place. In addition to these endearing traits, I tend to view the world in a way that is very practical and logical to me, but utterly puzzling and nonsensical to other people. I mentioned previously that I like to name my possessions - for example, my regular ipod is called Hector while my tiny shuffle ipod is called Jeremy. This makes perfect sense to me, and the reasons are twofold. Firstly, it's cute. I just dig it. Secondly, it makes it easier to identify items when they have become lost, or dragged off to be molested by one or more curious cats, or retrieved by the spider army to complete their latest weapon.

In a perfect world, this logic would be used by people everywhere, and lost items would be, in my opinion, a damn sight easier to find. The conversations would be like this:

Me: Have you seen Jeremy?

Other Half: Yes, he's right here.

Me: Oh frabjous day! Callooh callay!

Other Half: Come to my arms, my beamish Otternator!

In my perfect world, Other Half would be able to reference Lewis Carroll poems without rolling her eyes, and she'd allow me to interpretive dance in the kitchen next to the knife rack (because that's where the floor is best, danger be damned) and let me fill up the fridges with more than four kinds of cheese and buy enough Terry Pratchett coasters to cover every available surface and all that other stuff that drives me into a frenzied geek meltdown. Sadly, it is not a perfect world and other people wilfully insist on not using my methods and denying me cheese variety. Therefore, Other Half and I instead have conversations like this:

Me: Have you seen Jeremy?

Other Half: Who?

Me: Jeremy.

Other Half: Is that one of your Twitter friends?

Me: (appalled) Do you even know me at all?

Other Half: (holding up Hector with cautious optimism) This?

Me: No.

Other Half: (holding up a spatula) This?

Me: No.

Other Half: Me?

Me: (pinches nose and sighs)

I'm going to veer off for a moment to give another example of how differently I view the world on a day-to-day basis. A couple of years ago, in a previous job, some colleagues were exchanging banter about terrible chat-up lines they'd heard. The banter turned to conversation openers rather than stoppers (a field in which I have much expertise) and  one colleague turned to me. Unfortunately for him, he hadn't yet realised quite how odd I am. This would not bode well for our budding friendship.

Colleague: This is a good one - how much does a polar bear weigh?

Me: (without pausing) I think the males weigh about 900 pounds, on average. The females will weigh less.  

*crickets*

Colleague: (gaping) Um. You're supposed to say you don't know.

Me: But you asked me a question.

Colleague: You're not supposed to know the answer.

Me: What kind of person asks an unanswerable question? Who are you, Chuck Norris?

Colleague: What?

Me: Nevermind. Jeez.

I've been aiming to write one post a day for as long as I can force my brain to cooperate, but Other Half and I are moving house this weekend so this may be more difficult than I'd originally anticipated (I'm sure it will provide many entertaining tales for future posts involving dislocated joints and broken items). Still, I enjoy the stress that adventure and impending deadlines bring to my life.
Heart rate up. Challenge accepted.

Janette FM

Since Other Half's words to me this month have consisted of treasured compliments, such as "you know, you look like the bastard offspring of Clea DuVall and Justin Bieber with that hair", and since my friends reading this blog commented on how much more they admire her for putting up with my obvious insanity (and really picking up the Bieber joke and running miles and miles with it), I am going to retreat to a corner, glare balefully at the world, and talk about something other than Other Half.

I work in an office. We have some rather good banter, even though everyone in my department is at least 20 years older than me and most of them have children my age. The lady who sits next to me is very nice. I refer to her as Janette FM, because she sings and hums constantly, in a warbling soprano. She recently got a new mp3 player so this habit has eased up in the past week or so, but it still remains a constant theme of my day.

I never know what exciting song choice she will entertain next. In a single day she could range into multiple genres, including both new and old classics. On Monday last week she treated us to a harmonious hymn mash-up medley followed swiftly by a delightful operatic rendition of We Don't Need Another Hero. You can put in requests, I have discovered, but she does not do Jay-Z or Tinchy Stryder. I consider this a great waste of her talents. You can also join in but since Janette FM is slightly deaf, chances are that she'll belt it out at her own pace, regardless of how you're interpreting the song, and you'll just have to keep up. Breathing exercises help. It's all in the diaphragm.

Janette FM's slight deafness lends itself well to unintentional comedy moments. Her boss Alice sits over a small dividing wall, and our poor, long-suffering colleague Pauline sits diagonally behind Janette FM. I have no idea why the laws of physics and acoustics do not work in this particular spot - Janette can't seem to hear a thing Alice says but can hear anyone else in the same small two metre radius. The conversations, therefore, go like this:


Alice: Janette, do you have the documents for [important sounding acronym for something businessy]?

Janette FM continues working at her computer.

Alice: Janette.

Janette FM continues working at her computer.

Alice: Janette!

Janette FM continues working at her computer.

Pauline: Oh for god's sake. JANETTE!

Janette FM: What?

Pauline: Alice is talking to you.

Janette FM: (looking bemused) Is she? What's she saying?

Pauline: (sighs) Alice, what are you saying?

Alice: I'm asking if she's got the [important sounding acronym].

Pauline: She wants to know if you have the [important sounding acronym].

Janette: I'll have to check.

Pauline; She'll have to check.

Alice: I heard her, I'm not the deaf one!

Janette FM: What?

Pauline looks at me despairingly. People are always looking at me despairingly.

Me: Wouldn't it be much easier if you just emailed each other?

Janette FM: What?

Eventually, I put my headphones on. My ipod Hector - for some reason I really like to name inanimate objects - drowns out the first lines to Sweet Caroline with an awesome Crystal Castles song. Just in time, I think. Just in time.