I forgot my swipe card this morning. You can't get into the New Building without one, and if you forget it you have to sign a little book and get buzzed through the plexiglass. The lovely Front of House team never give you a hard time about this, but emails go round occasionally about all the extra work this generates for them when they already have tons to do, like buzz through people who don't have swipe cards at all and deal with random calls from the Great Global Public on the switchboard all day long. The people who write these emails are right. When I forget my swipe card I feel like a heel.
I had to go to the post room at lunchtime, which you also need a swipe card to get to. I asked my colleague, the gloriously named Spartaca, if I could borrow hers for ten minutes. Hey, I thought to myself as the door popped open, I'm Spartaca!
This thought kept me amused until I was nearly back at my desk, when I got waylaid once by someone wanting to talk about Kleinian psychotherapy and once by someone wanting to understand why she only had 24 hours to do the reading for a meeting I should have sent the papers out for last week. I talked anxiety and delivered apologies and sought solace (not found) in a pasta salad that clearly started life as a different meal on a different day.
And I forgot all about Spartaca's swipe card till I found it in my pocket after I got home. How shit do I feel now. How do you make it up to someone for leaving them having to wave plaintively at the security guard to get out and then having to sign the Book of Badness to get back in?
joella
1 comment:
Ouch.
Best hope Spartaca doesn't have a blog where she is currently bitching about a random colleague who has put her through swipe-card misery.
PS - one has to type the word verification to post a comment on this blog - very sensible - but, blimey, they seem to get harder and harder to decipher....
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