For the past month or so, I have been perched four stories above the ground. I have had not one, not two, not even three, but four windows beside me. I was afforded the grandest of views; able to observe the rabble on the ground beneath me, the fascinating lives of the pigeons upon the rooftops, and an uninterrupted line of sight to the sea.
As well as my general duties for the overlords, I voluntarily manned the blinds on all the windows. Were it a sunny morning, I would adjust them to prevent my colleagues from being blinded. As the day progressed, I revealed the majesty of our view window by window, carefully timing my unveilings as the sun made its usual journey from east to west.
It was a most agreeable arrangement. The manager called me The Light Master. My colleagues often verbalised their contentment with my blind prowess.
Today, everything changed.
I was moved to another seat, in order to make way for a manager. I am amongst the slack-jawed commoners, able to hear their inane “water cooler conversations” and their appalling phone manner.
For this, I may befoul a manager’s pencil holder and/or executive desk toy.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment