Men, Sex, Blood

Approaching work the other day, Sufjan Stevens was arriving at a crescendo in my ears with a long track called Djohariah, and suddenly three binmen appeared, pushing bright yellow wheelie-bins in formation and it was just, you know, an amazing moment? Though the binmen must have wondered why I was staring at them like that. (And applauding.)

The Christmas decorations have now gone up in the office. Carol was looking for suggestions for what to do with a bit of tinsel. 'Around the clock! Around the clock!', we chorused like children. The word 'clock' was misheard in the next office, to general hilarity. Tinsel also decorated Lorraine's rubber duck (a sample from a supplier), which then was referred to as her 'Christmas duck'. 'I hope that doesn't get misheard!', I commented and further hysteria ensued. It was like an episode of the Two Ronnies or something.

The duck had been perched on the partition between Lorraine's desk and mine, but facing her, so that I was presented with a tinsel-wrapped duck's arse. It has now been moved - amazing what a quick e-mail to HR will do.

The most exciting thing to happen at work recently - apart from the ongoing debate about whether to increase the monthly tea fund by 50p - has been the fun generated by changes in the law regarding 'practicing' gay men being able to give blood, which they can now do providing the old chap has been off active service for a year. This has meant a rapid reprint of a leaflet now called Men Who Have Sex With Men And Blood Donation, which has a new red cover, intensifying the fantastically lurid air of the whole thing - the words 'sex' and 'blood' leaping out at you as from a poster for an erotic horror film. I knew I was in this job for a reason.