My place of work has recently decided to introduce hot-desking. If you are not familiar with it, it essentially means that you no longer have a desk to call your own and instead you are forced to become a laptop-bearing digital nomad.
It's rubbish. Most of us keep our old desks and growl like mangy dogs at interlopers. It doesn't always work, however.
When it doesn't, it inevitably leads you to end up sitting with people who you would normally never come into contact with.
Today, was one such day.
I sat with my coffee attempting to look interested in the day to day activities of my job when a large fellow sweatily flopped into the seat beside me.
I had never seen him before. As is my way I decided to completely ignore him because quite frankly he looked like a twit.
No such luck.
He stuck out a meaty fist to shake my hand.
Alfie. The name's Alfie. Hows ya doing?
Reluctantly I took his hand and shook it. It was everything I had feared, moist and slightly sticky. I hoped fervently that he had not just been to the toilet.
Boomdawg.
I replied, hoping that that would be that and he would settle into his work and leave me alone.
No such luck.
This weather you Scotch have is bloody rubbish innit.
I bristled slightly. Yes, our weather was a bit rubbish but it was our weather and us Scots are a prickly, territorial bunch.
You get used to it.
I said lightly.
It's not true though, you never get used to the grey wet of the Scottish weather.
He grunted like a pig snouting for truffles.
I attempted to ignore him but all day long he kept blabbering random nonsense things at me as if we were best friends separated at childhood and reunited once more.
At lunchtime, I went to the local cafe. Surely now, I would be free of random verbal giblets and could focus for five minutes.
No such luck.
My new friend came in and saw me.
Hey hey buddy. Mind if I sit here?
Of course I do, you marauding galumph of a man, I thought. Before I could voice anything aloud, he sat down.
I made a face like a mule eating tulips. He didn't notice.
Bloody hell. I just got back from meeting the financial advisor. Not good. Not good at all...
He stated in a whiny voice like a weasel trying to get into a tin of mackerel.
My heart skipped a beat with joy at his misfortune. What was it? I wondered. Had he done his pudding on the gambling sites? Had he overstretched himself and was at risk of losing his home? Fantastic. Despite feeling as much empathy for him as I do to a potato, I asked what was wrong.
I'm under bloody mortgaged, mate.
He replied tersely.
Under Mortgaged? What's that?
It didn't sound like a disaster. I crossed my fingers and hoped that he would regale me with tales of financial woe.
No such luck.
He went on at great length to describe the process of being under mortgaged. Apparently, it is when you have bags and bags of money and your financial adviser tells you hat you could buy lots more houses.
I nodded my head at his woe until he finished.
At least the day was halfway done. I vowed frantically that tomorrow I would sit at a different seat on a different floor and not have to endure his twoddle for another day.
The next day dawned bright and wet. I dashed into work and sat at a completely random location. Hopefully far enough away that Alfie would never see me.
As the clock struck 9, I congratulated myself on my desk mastery. It looks like I had managed to give him the slip.
No such luck.
Alright mate! This desk taken?
I looked up and saw Alfie looming over me.
No mate it's all yours.
He sat down and pulled out his laptop and got comfortable. Whilst he did so I was unplugging mine.
You going somewhere?
He asked in surprise.
I smiled like an alligator wearing his wife's shoes.
Yeah, got a call, got to move floors.
I headed off with a spring in my step.
A man makes his own luck!
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What about you? Have you had to sit next to an annoying person in work. Heck, make that anywhere! Have you heard of being under mortgaged?!
Tell us in the comments. I will be there to listen!
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