Paws and Effect

Look at this! That bloody cat has been in the office, marching up and down my paperwork with his muddy paws, chewing up my pencils, stealing elastic bands and knocking as much onto the floor as he can.

What makes it worse is that this is exactly what used to make me Very Annoyed when I worked at the Big House, where my then-boss, Dorian, would allow her cats to roam freely in the office. I used to fume at the ruined letters, the cat hair in the printer and the dead animals left on the mat. Not to mention the strategically timed puking-and-poo-fests her feline friends would engage in whenever we were trying to impress anyone. I used to boot them, unceremoniously, out of the office whenever she wasn't looking.

But now, here I am, with my own office, with my own cats. I picked up the muddy paw-printed paper this morning and wailed "My god, have I turned into Dorian? Will I become orange and lose all my friends?" I had to boot the cat out, and fast, before I started down that slippery slope.

That was a close one. I settled down in my chair and began the serious business of the day. After an hour or so I became aware of a low purring. It dawned on me I had been absently stroking a small furry body for some time. That cat was back, on my lap, and I am officially one of those mad women.

Minstrels and Mayhem

Returning to the office after any time away is always trying. The numerous phone messages to pick up, the pages of email to sift through, the post to open; all that catching up before you even start on the actual work in hand. Returning in January also involves many teetering boxes of Christmas decorations to negotiate a pathway through, abandoned packets of mince pies and other festive ephemera strewn across every surface. All of this is manageable. It is expected. I know where I am with it. What has really thrown me this week is the fact that my diary is not in its usual position on the desk. It is the source of all information, the first thing I look at when I sit down. It is where I write my to-do lists and reminders. Foolishly I believed good old ink and paper was a safer bet than the electronic interweb for storing such things. Oblivious to power cuts, immune to viruses, it even repels tea and biscuit crumbs more efficiently. And yet, here I am, with my diary 75 miles away. I never foresaw this turn of events.

This is what happens when you let your office be used as a dressing room by Tudor minstrels. They accidentally pack your desk diary along with their books and music and return to their own place and time.

I am hopeful that, even as I type, the Royal Mail is bringing my diary back to me with all speed. Until it arrives I am in a state of office limbo. Do I have any appointments today? Meetings? Training days? Did I arrange anything? I simply don’t know.