From press articles: This series "has the charm of books by Agatha Christie", "Conan Doyle" or "GK Chesterton" but "are much funnier" with their "laugh out loud humor" and "globalized outlook".We all work in sick buildings
Ice, fire and other hazards of modern office life
By Nury Vittachi
*
Like many readers, I work in an office complex. This cluster of buildings is designed to serve 12,000 people. But I’m writing this all alone.
It’s a public holiday and everyone else is off work. But not me. No sir: how could the world cope without essential services such as medical care, air traffic control, law enforcement, and the provision of newspaper columns? (Don’t answer that.)
To save money on this low-traffic day, the building managers have taped a sign to the elevator: “Please consider using the stairs. You can Save Energy and Get Exercise.” Just in case I am not deeply moved by their rare use of the word “please”, they have thoughtfully turned the lift off to help me with my decision.
After puffing up the stairs to my office, I discover the air -conditioning has also been turned off and the room resembles the core of the sun, only 432 degrees hotter.
Actually, I don’t mind this. As a Sri Lankan, I am only happy when I am too hot.
I slave away on the paragraphs above until noon, and then go foraging for food.
Uh-oh. I quickly discover that every restaurant is closed. This is bad news. It means I have to get lunch from a convenience store. Convenience stores, for readers fortunate enough to be unfamiliar with them, are brightly lit hellholes selling food-like items at exorbitant prices to desperate, unwary people.
Unwisely, I purchase a food-like item and find there is no cooking time printed on it. Instead, it says: “Place in store microwave and press button eight.” This is because anyone idiotic enough to eat convenience store food is assumed, correctly, to lack the brainpower to be able to understand complex concepts such as the fact that “two minutes” means two of those minute things.
After two minutes, the oven beeps. I open the door and note that a blob of radioactive orange sauce has bubbled out from the container. I grab a tissue to try to mop it up.
This is a mistake because the orange liquid is 4,000 degrees Celcius. I end up screaming and leaping around the store with my fingers in my mouth, mumbling, “It’s all right, it’s all right,” a phrase which embarrassed, well-brought-up middle-class people say when they are not all right.
Shop staff, experienced at dealing with emergencies involving hazardous chemicals, wave me aside and don nuclear radiation suits to deal with the spill.
The leaky microwaved lunch box is placed in a plastic bag and handed to me. I take it back to my office/ sauna, where it raises the temperature from that of the sun to that of an exploding supernova. My plywood desk goes soft and all liquids, including my tears, evaporate instantly.
I strip to my boxer shorts to avoid heatstroke. At this point, the patrolling security guard peers through my office window and nods his head knowingly.
Why do I put up with these working conditions? I’ll tell you. Like virtually all other offices in big cities in Asia, my air-conditioning system has only two settings: “off” and “flash freeze”. I spend most of the week in freezing, sub-arctic conditions, rather like one of those cavemen they find in glaciers.
I have to work holidays and weekends to thaw out.
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