Friday afternoon

Friday afternoons at my old job were simple: around 2pm everyone would wander over to the trading desk and shoot the shit. Sports would be discussed, entertainment figures skewered, and the occasional indecent picture would appear on the receptionist's computer. Work would be forgotten during the fun, and occasionally there were sweets of some kind. The session usually lasted an hour or so, at which point the non-hourly folks would vacate the premesis, in anticipation of an afternoon on the golf course. The hourly folks, of which I was a low-paid member, would hang around until our economic requirements were fulfilled. My current employment as a member of the outsourced class leaves me in a slightly different position. I show up right before everyone is leaving, during the shit-shooting phase of the afternoon. I come in primed, full of lunch and jolly after 10 hours of sleep. I weave a path of destruction, leaving boatloads of giggling slavs in my wake. I press the flesh like a small-town politico. After-work meetings are planned, discarded, proposed, forgotten, leaving tonight's plans in a constant state of unresolved doubt. By 5pm most everyone has departed, leaving the US team to fend for ourselves. I work until about 9ish, when my US based colleagues begin their own unproductive hour. In fact, I have entered my second unproductive period of the day. My colleague has discovered a new ringone for his phone, colorfully named 'fart', which has been played a number of times to general amusement. Pavol, my other colleague, is currently playing the soundtrack to 'Amelie' on his computer, which is quite excellent, and appears to work well as inspiration for long blog posts. In other exciting news, I'll be going to a dance club tonight, called 'Face to Face'. I've never been, but my spanish colleague starts frothing at the mouth at the merest mention of the place. Apparently it is a proper-american style hip hop club, except with euro-poseurs in place of actual black people. I'm looking forward to seeing pallid, grey-complexioned eurotrash in giant FUBU outfits. Although the spectacular thing about the place is its supposed 70-30 girl/guy ratio. I am no longer a hunter, being properly satiated, but I go only to witness the inevitable situations into which my co-workers will work themselves. Brawling, boozing, and ghetto-dancing make a potent mix, and an equially fertile ground for future blog posts.