Becoming one of "those" employees

It has happened.  My job has finally sent me mad. 

Below is a copy of an email I found myself sending to the team leader last week.  In my defence, in an office where we hotdesk, this felt at the time like a very serious issue.

Dear [team leader]

I am sorry to bother you about such a trivial matter, but I am not sure who else to contact regarding the issue of telephone wipes.

I know it was mentioned at the team meeting last week, but I was wondering if anything is being done about obtaining telephone wipes? We simply aren't given them any more, and as I am rarely at the same desk, most of my mornings are spent hunting around the desks of others for any spare telephone wipes. I confess that, as people eat at their desks, sneeze into their hands and then use the keyboard and mouse, I use mine not only for the telephone but also for wiping down the keyboard and mouse. After that spell last year when I was constantly sick, I have become concerned to prevent myself getting sick again. Increasingly, it is becoming difficult to find any spare wipes. If we are not longer going to be issued them on a daily basis, one solution may be for packets of wet ones or other disinfectant wipes to be left in the kitchen for those of us who move desks to use. Who can I speak to about purchasing these wipes for general use?

Kind regards

Natural beauty

I'm a believer in natural beauty.  Therefore, I usually don't wear make-up, heeled shoes or bother "doing" my hair.  Or at least the "natural beauty" thing is my excuse.  Actually, I'm just lazy.  Given I'm not overweight and don't yet have a face like a half-sucked mango, I like to think I can get away with my casual appearance.  If it was up to me, I would happily wear my tracksuit or leggings and trainers everywhere.  As it is, after much negotiation, G and I have reached a compromise, being that I can only wear such outfits  in public if I'm doing exercise or if I'm not in G's company.  He doesn't want to be embarrassed by my chavvy, casual look.   

Although G and I have reached this compromise, he still gives me disapproving looks when he discovers I've been out in public sporting a tracksuit, leggings or (sometimes) even just a coat thrown over my pyjamas (only when I'm getting the Sunday morning papers).  G tells me that, even at the local shops, it isn't good to look like a hobo.  I have always thought him uptight in that regards.  Now, however, I'm starting to come around to his way of thinking.

One area in which I am not lazy is in the personal grooming department.  Messy eyebrows irritate me no  end.  I like to keep mine looking natural but, as all women know, natural looking eyebrows are no less effort than their more shaped and sculptured cousins.  No grown woman actually wants natural eyebrows; the trick is to shape them so it looks like god gave us these beautifully shaped eyebrows, rather than the squashed caterpillar brows we're born with.  So I'm fastidious in removing those unsightly and out of place hairs and taking myself off to the beautician every now and again.

This weekend, G and I were in the rather unusual position of being in high demand for social events.  With two 30th birthday parties to go to on Saturday night, on Saturday I decided to attend the beautician to get my eyebrows done.  Given there's a beautician just around the corner from us, and given G wasn't accompanying me, I threw on my comfort outfit of leggings, uggs and flannel shirt. 

"Are you going out in that" G asked.  Yes, was my response. 

"You'll get cold".  So I threw my coat over the top.
"That looks no better.  Really, that is not a look you should sport in public.  Or anywhere".

I shot G a loaded "don't be so uptight" look as I walked out the door.  I didn't care that I looked ridiculous and off I went.  Oh, but I should have cared.  I really should have cared.

When I arrived at "Dee's beauticians" I gave the woman my usual mantra: natural looking, don't change the shape, just tidy them up.  Dee seemed to understand.  She pointed me to the table and quickly applied the wax to my eyebrows.  A few painful moments later and she gave me the mirror to see my reflection.  Staring back at me I found a woman with two eyebrows so thin they appeared to have been drawn on with a fine pencil.  Dee had managed to turn my "natural" eyebrows into two extremely thin lines.  They are the sort of eyebrows sported by young women who think pink velour tracksuits with heels are the height of fashion.   Dee told me that while she knew I said I wanted natural, she thought this look just suited me so much better.

And she's right in a way.  The "are they there or are they not" eyebrow look does perhaps suit the slightly insane look I was sporting that day.  On the other hand, they do not go at all with my usual look, which tends more towards the "I'm not a chavvy skank" trend. 

Don't tell G this, but I'm starting to think he is right.  Maybe, even when I'm only going down the road, it's time to trade in the comfort for a little bit of style.

An update on the farter

The flatulence problem in my office has not subsided.  Finally, however, the farter was spoken to.  His line manager discussed the tricky situation with HR and on their advice proceeded to have what she describes as the most difficult conversation she has had in a professional context. 

I am reliably told that the farter told his line manager that his "problem" was not a medical one but was simply the food he eats.  He was apparently baffled by the fact it was regarded as an issue, as he considered the smell (which he was aware of) did not travel that far.  In short, as one rather blunt work colleague put it ,"he knows he's a stinker and doesn't care".  Nonetheless, he was asked in future to excuse himself to the bathroom when a fart was imminent. 

Problem solved, we all thought.  But sadly, it wasn't to be.  The next day there was a noise of eruption and the office was once again filled with that familiar odour.  Worst of all, a colleague sitting near him insisted that his facial expression was one of (as she put it) "someone pushing it out".  The drama of the farter continues.