Office whip-round is worth the pain, says Vanessa Feltz
ARE you reeling from the revelation that simply working in an office costs us £40,000 over the course of our working lives?
Maybe you are shocked at the tally? How can a career’s worth of birthday whip-rounds, secret Santas, new baby gifts and celebratory cakes and cookies for Super Sugar Fridays possibly add up to the deposit on a sea-front flat in Magaluf? Frankly, I’m not surprised at the thwacking great total.
I know I work in two different offices, in two different buildings – Radio 2 and BBC Radio London – and all before 10 o’clock in the morning, not to mention my forays into the great and legendary Daily Express, but sometimes it feels as if there’s a daily office attendance tax, payable on entry, as esteemed colleagues whizz off into the wide blue yonder of retirement, reproduce yet again, celebrate what seems like their 14th birthday of the year, get engaged, get divorced, take a sabbatical, or charge off upstairs glorying in a promotion.
Digging around for a spot of small change to mark a major milestone in the life of someone who has consumed salad at the adjoining desk for a decade simply doesn’t cut it. We’re definitely talking about wodges of what used to be called “folding money”, factor in ridiculously pricy frothy coffees for the team, post-work drinks, fares to far flung nuptials and frocks for assorted shindigs and the coffers are in a state of perpetual plunder.
Don’t faint from shock, though, Gentle Reader, when I tell you the outlay is a bargain, phenomenal value for money. I kid you not. The constant ferreting in our wallets is a small price to pay for the camaraderie, the gossip, and dare I say it, the genuine and life-lasting friendship we gain as part of a working crew.
Being part of a work gang has been an endlessly diverting source of support, free therapy, entertainment and salacious scandal
I’ve worked since I was a nipper: in my dad’s underwear warehouse, in an Oxford Street shoe shop, for a housing association, as an English literature tutor, on a host of magazines and for the past 30 years on a galaxy of publications, radio shows and the telly.
I’ve loved some jobs and loathed others, dreaded getting out of bed and jumped for joy, but there’s one thing I have treasured however tedious or poorly paid the gig – the chats, confidences, jokes, flirtations, indiscretions, tittle-tattle and daily interaction with my fellow toilers.
I love the connection, the shared oppression by harsh task-masters, the united relief on a Friday, the conflicting views, the power crazy, the Machiavellian skivers, the office clowns, the wounded, the gorgeously dressed and the team-spirited.
Being part of a work gang has been an endlessly diverting source of support, free therapy, entertainment and salacious scandal.
Even when I hate it I adore it. Those who sneeze all over us, consume noxious smelling concoctions at their desks and abscond for fictitious funerals when the going gets tough, I include you in my outpouring of affection.
Coworkers, colleagues, foes, rivals and friends, I salute you, every one.
Meryl Streep criticises Trump in Golden Globe speech
2017 emerged icy and chilling to the bone. In deepest Gloucestershire a layer of ice was forming between my fake fur jacket and a pair of feeble leggings.
Forgetting to be stoical, I admit to succumbing to an unattractive bout of moaning. “Oooh! I’m freezing. Gosh, my teeth are chattering. Yikes, my ample buttocks are turning blue.”
And a stream of unedifying stuff in a similar vein. The flow of self-pity halted only when my (10 years younger) Other Half cast his eyes heavenward and said wistfully: “If only you could have a hot flush when you need one.”
Cue collapse of stout menopausal moaner.
From the moment we first lisp “twinkle, twinkle little star” we’re hooked on bright sparkly things that gleam and glisten.
It’s always a wrench to switch off the Christmas lights, plunging the house into dullness.
That’s why this year’s Golden Globe fashion was a dazzling delight. Hollywood’s A-listers – including lifetime award winner Meryl Streep – in head to toe embellished gold glinted and glimmered in the popping flashlights like glorious Yuletide baubles.
La La Land star Emma Stone was awash with diamante, The Crown star Claire Foy was sequinned to within an inch of her life. And just look at Sofia Vergara.
Let the fashionistas state the case for black on black but I’m all for asserting that there’s nothing quite like beautiful and talented women bespangled and bedecked in baubles, bangles and bright shiny beads to bring out the best in all of us.
What a gigantic relief to see Her Majesty up and about, attending church at Sandringham in a sapphire ensemble and looking her usual self.
She has been a constant in all our lives and was so sorely missed in the weeks a severe cold kept her confined to quarters.
Seeing the sovereign going about her business as usual was just the fillip we all needed to pilot us merrily into 2017.
Fancy that. Conservative MP Jake Berry revealed that, while prime minister, David Cameron insisted on having the crusts cut off his breakfast toast.
“How many of us were childhood picky eaters who never grew out of our infant food fads?” I asked my Radio 2 listeners unleashing an outpouring from those who still remove all the “S” letters from their Alphabetti Spaghetti, make small lakes of brown sauce in their mounds of mashed potato, must have the tops of their boiled eggs cut off by someone else, will only drink tea from mugs with white china insides and won’t touch any dish containing onions even if the onions are so disguised they can be neither seen nor smelt.
Does anyone blame the former PM for failing to eat his crusts, thus condemning himself to a life of incurably straight hair? It seems the consensus is, “It’s nice work if you can get it”. Deep down we’d all love a deferential member of domestic staff to pick the nasty raisins out of our muesli or scoop those horrible mushy strawberries from our yogurt.
Staying in a child-friendly hotel complete with supervised kids’ club, children’s early dinner and every mod con to ensure mums and dads had a holiday too, I was aghast to see almost every child in the dining room handed an electronic device at the start of the meal and glued to it throughout.
Many wore headphones. Some were under a year old. Most of these parents had farmed their offspring out to qualified carers all morning, and again after lunch.
They’d be leaving them with the hotel’s babysitters after supper. They weren’t dashing to work. So why not relish the opportunity to spend time chatting to their children?
If Theresa May wants a conversation tsar to promote the pluses of talking to children aged nought to 18, I’m her girl.
Handing out screens to tiny tots is an abysmal idea and I’d put serious money on it seriously impeding their development.