An Easter egg for all you non-believers

The swiss roll. After it was relocated I buried it at sea. Well, actually in a cup of water inside the air-conditioning unit.

Attention all heretics

For those of you with no imagination #2

The West side

For those of you with no imagination #1

The East side

9.40am

I’m crushed this morning. My bin has been emptied. The green sticker is facing outwards on display to the room, my home made red artwork is staring at the wall like a disgraced child. This is exactly as I had left it, with one major exception: the contents of the bin have been spirited away during the night.

The only sweetener to be had here is that the arrangement  around the general bin area hasn’t been meddled with. Teabags, chewing gum and sweet wrappers are still arranged tastefully on the stained wood block flooring. The only sensible course of action comes to me in a flash. I will bypass the office refuse system altogether.

Elegant solutions to simple problems

I have made the duplicate bin sign. It is slightly larger than the original bright green sticker and I have coloured it red for added impact. It now looks like a proper warning. I have also catered for the eventuality of translation difficulties with the addition of a large ‘X’ at the top of the notice. I have attached it to the opposite side of the bin as planned.

The beauty of this new sign is that it’s easily removable – simply held in place by several bits of Blu-Tack. I’m excited because if it works in the office as predicted, I can take it home and try it on my dustbin there. I am the proud creator of a portable solution to unwanted waste removal intervention.

Warning: bin burglars at large

I have a huge green sticker on my waste paper bin which reads ‘Don’t change my bin!’ and in small type below it ‘Winchester City Council’. The original purpose of this sticker is a complete mystery to me, but I am nevertheless seduced by the vision it conjures: Winchester as a utopia of overflowing dustbins and happy, slovenly citizens.

At the end of each working day the bin is generally only half full due to my habit of missing the ‘intended’ target. The wall behind it, however, has clearly borne the brunt of my inaccuracies with foodstuffs and sputum. It is speckled, dashed, streaked and, bizarrely, never mentioned nor cleaned.

I personally ensure that at the close of each day, the sticker side of the bin is proudly on display, optimistic that the instruction will be followed unswervingly.

Consequently, I am disappointed every morning when the bin has been plundered. As if that setback alone isn’t enough to contend with, another pattern has been noted: the bin has been turned round 180 degrees, thereby hiding the sticker and any confusion it may create.

After wracking my brains for a solution, I am now creating a duplicate sticker for the reverse side of my bin IN BIGGER LETTERS.

Small is the new tall

I decide to spit my silver dollar into the Starbucks coffer this morning and am reminded why this is never a good option. Overpriced watery drinks, dished out by teenagers who can barely string a couple of words of English together. Add a Bob Dylan soundtrack, some sick making wall decals and yesterday’s croissants and the nightmare is complete.

But my real beef is with the deliberately arcane sizing system. I ask for a ‘small’ coffee and am shown a ‘vente’ cup, which looks like something I may struggle to fill during moments of infirmity. I repeat my command, clearer this time and am shown a ‘medium’ cup. I roll my eyes skyward and curl my lips. Universal language: small it is. No flapjack ‘add-on’ tactics are attempted.

Moments later, confusion arises as I unwittingly try and take someone else’s drink – described as ‘small’ – as it is placed on the collection point. Pavlo, busying himself at the frothed milk station, proceeds to inform me that ‘Small’ actually means ‘Tall’ in Starbucks speak. Humiliated, I shake my head at the sheer ludicrousness of the situation. Here I am, being asked to invert my entire understanding of basic learned communication by somebody whose feeble grasp of the English language has been gleaned from a corporate guidelines handbook.

A mere 5′11 small, I am unimpressed by the 6′3 smaller Ukranian currently in charge of my caffeine dispensation. I smile, lean forward and accidentally knock the cup over, sending a slurry-coloured waterfall of hot drink cascading down the work surface and the ‘impulse purchase’ rack. Feigning shock, I jump backwards and try my best to look embarrassed, while at the same time observing the gravitational effect of scalding liquid on biscuit wrappings.

After much fussing, I accept a replacement drink – I hold out for ‘vente,’ of course – which I then deliberately drop right outside the entrance to the shop. Coffee on the run is a filthy trend and a habit not to be encouraged.

3.12pm

Despite its immodest dimensions, I am able to savage most of the kebab within a few minutes. The tomato is far too watery for my tastes though, and I am forced to spit it out in a half-chewed state. It ‘narrowly’ misses my waste basket, of course, and clings to the wall like a huge spider fatality. I shovel some bits of chicken under my desk, nestling them lovingly into some old chip wrappers and also add some filling to the electric fire in the corner for good measure. Hey presto! Quick-release, roasting bird air-freshener. Bootiful.

1.48pm

I’m watching myself on CCTV, spitting through tightened lips on to the kebab shop floor. I observe myself glancing furtively about to see if anyone else has noticed my unhygienic activity. I’m always thrilled when somebody does notice – that initial look of confusion, shock and resignation in a stranger’s eyes is life affirming evidence of my real talents. No such luck today though – a dry run, but a wet floor.

I’ve gone for the chicken donerXL with ’sauce plus’ for lunch. It’s the right thing to do. On my way back to the office I spit flagrantly at a street operative’s trolley bearing the unhealthy slogan ‘Clean Streets’. I chuckle at the irony of it all as my spit slowly trickles down the side of the trolley and hangs suspended a matter of inches away from the pavement where it is destined to become just another lonely mess waiting for a passing shoe – a ‘sole’mate if you like. Clean fucking streets indeed. What utter bullshit. Any fool can see they’re filthy as hell.