The Office (s)Kills

We performed scenarios and acted out

role reversals on how to answer the phone,

‘cos apparently now you don’t shout:

“WHAT?”

you must talk clearly, preferably

in a brain dead Home Counties accent: 

“Good Morning, how can I help you?”   

Punctuated by rising inflections 

that overflow with inane happiness.

Then we moved on to not throwing coffee

over computer keyboards, although why

you would want to is still quite a mystery.

With all that knowledge to chew over, lunch,

a well needed break.  Spilt coffee over canteen tables 

chatted to our loved ones on mobile phones:

“yeah the teacher bloke is a right wanker,

and this is such a stupid waste of time.”

After lunch, training, yet another lecture

armed with clipboards and coloured pencils

we made notes on how to pick things up, 

objects that is

we’re not talking anything useful

as in a night-club sense:

keep your knees bent and your back straight 

so as not to do yourself an awful mischief.

Then again you never know,

I’ll certainly keep that in mind

round the back of the Palais

Saturday night.

Afternoon tea, which was liberally sprinkled

around the canteen, then such untold excitement 

to be ushered into another lecture,

this time:

how not to get tangled up in machines,

how not to annoy them, or not tease them

with seductively loose clothing 

as they will mangle your flesh,

maybe tear off a limb, turn you into sandwich

spread, or pâté if you’re posh. 

Then you’re fired 

for damaging the hardware.

Now we’re fully qualified, with certificates

to prove it, so when the phone rang I knew

it was time to initiate that training:

“WHAT?” 

but hit by a rush of information, 

things seemed to have got a little jumbled 

and … well it is just possible … I might have 

… kind of … panicked, 

what with being extra eager to impress.

My mouth dried-up.  

My palms went sweaty.

My heart was pounding, 

which could have been due to stress

or even a psycho-illogical illness:

I chopped off your hands, put them neatly 

in the stationary cupboard, filed your fingers 

under ‘D’ for digits.  Lost your ears 

although they could be in the post,

in which case you should have them back

by next Tuesday,

and put your feet, all tidy, in those empty boxes.

Knees bent back straight, OK I admit it, 

I got flustered: but you didn’t exactly help, 

falling to pieces like that.

©2006 P.A.Levy

First published Snakeskin 2010