POWER MAN
It’s pointless me charting a path to what you’re about to read because you already pretty much know how I arrived at this point. If in any doubt, just substitute the previous bureaucratic madness about trying to get someone to come and make a phone work, with something similarly ridiculous about how to get someone to come and get a desk powered up, and then simply apply the same RIDICULOUS timeframe, chuck in half a dozen disinterested people who each think everyone but themselves should be sorting this out and then add magic mushrooms.
Allow me to make the introductions.
POWER MAN (40s) smart new boiler suit, a confident swagger to his walk, saunters through the open-plan office. He stops at a desk, puts his surprisingly clean and very shiny toolbox down on the floor, straightens up and winks at me.
POWER MAN
Alright. Got a couple of desks need powering up?
(It still really bothers me that I failed to initially note two massively glaring pieces of characterization: the smart boiler suit - it even had ironed creases - and a shiny clean toolbox.)
Anyway, I pointed out that indeed these were the two desks that needed powering up.
POWER MAN
Let’s see what we can do for you.
(The royal plural, eh? Pluralis maiestatis. Unless he actually means a hoard of them are about to turn up similarly dressed in brand new boiler suits? Maybe enacting a synchronized saunter across the office to musical accompaniment. “MEN AT WORK - The Musical: it’s men working, but with songs!”)
He drops to his knees (mind those creases) and crawls under my desk.
I back away a little, trying to determine what should be a respectful distance in this kind of scenario, somewhere between not too far away that it seems I’m not interested in the work he is doing on my behalf, but also not too close for him to think I’m somehow checking up on his work. The result, I think, must have been maybe a little too close, because when he reappeared from under my desk I stupidly pretended to be surprised that he had just appeared from under my desk. His head popped out, my eyebrows shot up and I gave a little “Oh! Hello!” and consequently felt a right twat.
Why did I do that?
Anyway…
POWER MAN
Yeah. The problem is your desk isn’t plugged in. You’ve got no power to your desk.
(If only this genius had thought to study the great diseases of our time or famine prevention instead of desk plugs, then the world as we know it might be a different place. I stress might.)
ME
I know. That’s why I called you.
POWER MAN
There’s nothing powering it up. It needs connecting to the mains.
ME
Right.
POWER MAN
You see, what you’ve got, you got the power block attached to your desk, that’s those plugs you see under there. See? That line of plugs?
I make a point of looking under the desk to look at the plugs. I nod my head.
POWER MAN
Well they’re your plugs. But they’re not plugged in themselves. What you need is a lead to plug into your power block, that block there, that also plugs into the mains via that floor box.
I continue to stare at my powerless plugs, sagely nodding my head as if I’m finally being allowed in to the inner sanctum of plug knowledge.
POWER MAN
That’s how you power it.
ME
Right.
POWER MAN
Basically you’re gonna need a lead. A lead and a plug.
ME
Right. A lead and a plug.
POWER MAN
Yeah. You’ll need a lead and plug.
ME
Right.
Power Man gathers together his shiny toolbox. I take note of this worrying action but remain rooted to the spot unsure of what to do or what say to him. The gormless concern etched across my face prompts him to reiterate by way of reassurance --
POWER MAN
You need a lead and a plug. You’ll need to put in a request for a lead and a plug.
ME
Sorry?
POWER MAN
You’ll need to put in a request for a lead and a plug.
I stare at Power Man. I look around at the surrounding desks, all inhabited by silent strangers beavering away at whatever it is they do. I can’t find one person to make eye contact with in the hope of exchanging a knowing smile, or maybe even a Valium or two. I look across to the window, half expecting to see Jeremy Beadle grinning back at me. Except he’s dead now. Although I’m not convinced seeing him standing there would make any less sense.
It turns out that there are four different departments involved in the installation of my desk. Of course there is. Firstly, naturally, there is the actual desk department who deliver and build my desk and kindly throw in a wonky chair for good measure but not good posture. Then there’s the floor box department who install holes in the floors under desks for plugging things into. Then there’s the guys who wire up the holes in the floors and make them work. Then there’s the department who supply power leads and plugs. They are four separate departments, each owned by separate independent contractors, who each bill the BBC for each job they carry out. They do not appear to communicate with each other or have a good word to say about each other.
I should also point out that Phone Man is not employed by any of the above departments as the phones are also a separate outsourced service. Fun, eh?
In summary: Power Man informs me our desks are without specific leads and plugs required for power. I point out that we had already worked out that bombshell, hence the request for someone to come and power us up. He then points out that the actual supplying of leads and plugs are not his area of responsibility, his area of responsibility is simply to ensure that there is actual power available but stops at making that power accessible through the unusual and outdated practice of supplying an actual power cord and an actual plug. Or as he succinctly put it:
POWER MAN
Look. I can confirm your desks have the ability to get power. That’s not a problem. But as to whether you can actually access that power, well, that’s not my area of responsibility. You need to speak to the building facilities department to get a plug and a lead. They can supply you with the route to the power but not the power itself, that’s my department.
So…
… having known for six months that I was due to start here on a specific date and would need a desk on arrival, it still took one month after I arrived to actually get a desk, and having got that desk it then took a further two weeks to get a working phone and power to that desk. Brilliant.
Once this Millennium Dome of desks was finally complete, with all the different departments having contributed their expensive bit to the jigsaw, the first item I plugged in, of course, didn’t work. No power. Nothing. Which, it turns out, wasn’t such a bad thing as it meant I avoided electrocution when I repeatedly smashed my skull into my monitor screen. Eventually they/someone/not sure who at this point, returned in my absence and diagnosed the fuses in my desk plugs needed replacing. Yet it wasn’t because I was told about the fuses that I knew they had been changed. Oh no. Nothing that obvious. It was simply because when I returned to my desk, planted my arse and moved my mouse, the resulting sharp pain and subsequent smear of blood across my desk was revealed to be the result of smashed fuse glass imbedded in my palm. I discovered more small pieces of glass generously scattered across my desk, as if a mouse juggling act had gone terribly wrong in my absence.
A kind soul from a neighboring desk advised me where the first aid box was kept. I thanked him for his concern, and then apologized to his colleagues for screaming “FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!” at the top of my voice. I'm sure they heard my apology from under their desks.
My hand wrapped in tissue paper, I trotted off to the kitchenette area, as instructed.
What a marvelous sight to behold…
I found this Telegraph article written in 2002: Suffering Succotash! which has since left me with with one eye on the ceiling and the other browsing Ebay for secondhand Miner's hats.
It looks like I picked a bad year to give up glue.
