Toilet Etiquette

I'm never entirely sure of how friendly one should be in the office toilets. Should one acknowledge co-workers as they're going in and out of cubicles? And then do you start a conversation with them? I did that last week with a colleague as we both stood next to each other drying our hands. I felt I had to break the silence so we ended up discussing how nice it would be to have a Dyson Airblade. Dorothy Parker it wasn't.

Toilets, especially for girls I think, are places of sanctuary. If you feel like you're going to have a cry you run to the toilets. If you sense your hair is suddenly going off piste, you run for the toilets. If you're suffering a hangover from the night before, you run for the toilets. And maybe the last thing you want is to have to make small talk.

Smart girls (and boys) use the disabled toilet. Total privacy and acres of space for whatever it is you need to do. Only problem is, the whole office is obviously getting smarter cos an unengaged, stench-free disabled toilet is like El Dorado these days.

And as to the toilet etiquette in the gents, I can only wonder.

So...what are your thoughts on quantitative easing?

The Office Christmas Party

Ah, Christmas in the office. As we sit in our hats and scarves because the heating has broken down for the third year in a row and admire the fifteen year old decorations hanging limply from the door frames, we wonder what fresh horrors the festive season has in store. Because Christmas means the Office Christmas Party (or should that be partaay?)

A Christmas Party should be a very straightforward affair. Employees get taken to the pub by the boss, they buy all the drinks and everyone gets cheerfully drunk together. Job done. But at the University of Cockleton, they remember the true meaning of Christmas. Just as Christ was born to reconcile Man with God, so the Christmas Party hath been given unto us to unite Academics and Administrators.

This means that some poor sod will end up drawing Professor Bluster for their Secret Santa and buying him "comedy" socks out of sheer desperation and then enduring the further pain of  having to sit next to him in the pub and make excruciating small talk about his geraniums.

So a Christmas message to Cockleton management: I know we should all be rockin' around the (Fire Safety Officer-approved) Christmas tree together or something but come on! Imagine how disappointed the Three Wise Men would have been if they'd rocked up at Bethlehem and found that the Baby Jesus was actually an obnoxious teenager from Stevenage called Darren. After a long, hard year of administrating we just want to get pissed with our colleagues and have a bloody good moan. For verily, this is the True Meaning of Christmas.

Welcome to the University of Cockleton

Hello world!

I will be blogging about life at the University of Cockleton, somewhere in the sceptered isle of Great Britain. There'll be eccentric academics, world-weary administrators and office colleagues who make David Brent look like Cary Grant.

I cheerfully accept that perhaps the only readers will be me and those nice people who try to sell Viagra to everyone on the Internet. Well, it beats watching yet another repeat of Friends.