Another day ends and a section of my company which provided us with terrible poems and mediocre music once a week at 9:30 to a largely curious audience who soon after realised they had to go outside to work or boil their hand in the steam from a kettle rather than listen to the self congratulatory metaphorical blowjobs they all gave each other for half an hour, on demand, has ceased to exist as the not so glorious leader has been moved sideways to fuck something else up somewhere else. And som now we are to be given the absolute cream of the company, he who probably fucked something up somewhere and has moved into cynic central, where every move will be regarded with a “much better in my day” shrug and we’ll carry on doing what we do despite a new man in a shiny suit waffling on at 9:30 every Tuesday morning to command. You could set your clock to it, and watch who speaks on the teams chat, waltzing and jiving around the virtual  ballroom flinging whatever they want within the circle of trust and seeing what sticks, a Tuesday morning open forum dirty protest we can all watch on line with some people, usually the same people taking part in. I wonder if they know we’re there, or forgot or couldn’t give a shit. The divide is very real between us, who inhabit the wild outsides, and them, who work in the fully air-conditioned office where men roam with jackets and no ties, trainers and chinos, tutus and tap shoes. 

It’s a… world.