Mashing Toads

My office is located next to a sewage farm. On still days it reeks. When we first moved to this location, I found myself smoking a cigarette in the parking lot, missing Scotland and feeling tired, frustrated and under-appreciated.

A friendly tradesman struck up a form of conversation common to these parts, composed mainly of grunts and eye-rolling. One of the more intelligible things he did say which stuck in my mind was; while gesturing to the sewage farm: “You won’t have to see it to know it’s there in the summer.”

Well it’s summer now; and I can’t see it. But I can smell the fucker. It’s not good.

The smell of the sewage farm has become a metaphor of my experience working for this company. I wake up every morning, bleary and unmotivated and stumble to my shit job, surrounded (mainly) by shit people, on shit money and nothing I ever do makes any difference and all the time there is a faint smell of shit. Despite an HND (merit) Bachelors Degree (distinction) and Postgraduate Diploma (distinction) I’m not being paid very much money, even though the company is expanding it’s HQ by several employees (amounting to more than £100,000 in total).

I started the job with the best of intentions. I was promised, during the interview, an “almost immediate” review of my salary. It never came. After three months I asked for the review, I was told it was pending. After six months I was entitled to a 4% raise, which amounts to (significantly) less than £1000 per year extra. Woop-de-fuckin-doo-dah.

And that’s when I stopped caring. I still achieve a higher volume of output than most people around me; fielding emails, writing press releases, arranging PR events and publicity stunts (though I am never allowed to spend any money) and doing all the standard PR stuff which I have come to believe is little more than “applied bullshit”. Sometimes I get to communicate with the media; this is exciting. They’re where I want to be. I want to ask them: “What’s it like working for a proper company?” “How does it feel to see your own words in print, with your own name under them?” But I never do. I just churn out official lines and fictitious quotes through clenched teeth, the jealousy making my hands shake. And they thank me and hang up. And I get on with the bullshit; trying to make a company for which I hold no sympathy sound as good as possible.

Once I have accomplished an acceptable amount (I still think I’m working beyond my pay-grade) I blog and harass people on Yahoo Answers. I write strange and confusing letters to local councils using one of my aliases; generally running down the clock until it’s time to go surfing (one of the perks of this job; it’s near my house, which is near a beach which is where I am happy.)

Sometimes I wonder if there might be better things I could be doing with my time. Every now and then I have an attack of conscience and work non-stop for hours on end, devising strategies, typing up neglected T-line notes, proposing ideas, coordinating different staff to assist with raising the profile, image and reputation of the business; but for what? 90% of my emails are never replied to; the ideas I do have are usually met with raised eyebrows while I explain, very slowly, that they will help the company and they will not cost money. These explanations usually lead to a response like “Let’s wait to X is done” or “Let’s see what Y has to say about that” and that’s the last I ever hear about them. So even with concerted application of my skills, nothing ever happens.

And all the time, the smell of shit.

I sometimes dream about driving here in the middle of the night, with bin-bags taped to my license plates and an army-surplus balaclava covering my face, in order to firebomb the office. I smile to myself imagining the flickering orange light; the smell of melting plastic, burning nylon masking the ever-present smell of shit. I giggle like a little girl at the thought of the building reduced to rubble by my righteous hand, but these are fantasies. What would burning the office accomplish? They’d find another. Besides, I’m no arsonist.

“Nobody’s happy in their job.” One guy told me.

“Nobody’s happy in their twenties.” Said another.

“Why whinge all the time? If you’re getting away with only working when you think it’s necessary, what’s the problem?” Said one who clearly didn’t get it.

I have friends with fewer qualifications and significantly less creativity who are driving expensive cars, buying houses and no doubt guffawing over cigars and brandy while minions of scantily-clad women from Thailand rub fragrant oils into their perfectly pedicured feet.

No, it’s not about money. I just want to feel that I’m making some kind of a difference; like the work I do every day of my life is somehow important. The sad truth is, this company doesn’t need me. Sure, without me they might look a bit silly in the press from time to time; their quotes might not be as punchy (or as correctly spelt) and their outgoing literature/web content might have the vague whiff of retard about it, but who would notice? Who would even care?

The weird thing is, the actual “work” is something I quite like. I like to feel that I’m doing something well; producing something good; doing something I’m good at. I like to write. I like to turn the garbled, childish ravings of a senior manager into a tight, concise and well-written communication. The problem is that I might as well be squashing bits of lawnmower-devastated toad onto post-it notes and flushing them down the toilet for all the impact it has.

And still the smell of shit.

I’ve been applying for jobs recently; the ones who show an interest would involve moving and I don’t think I have the physical or emotional energy to move house again. I’m reluctant to venture out into the unknown again for the second time this year. The ones I really want (media jobs in the area) don’t want me. They don’t even want to see me for an interview. Come November I will have been here for one whole year, my first “proper job” since graduating. At that point, people say, I would be alright to leave this job –but do what?

So I sit here, when I’m supposed to be “working” and I think about all the things I would like to do with my life and gradually I start to feel a little better and send out my CV again to all kinds of different people and the rejections flood in and I feel horrible again and return to mashing toad-pieces onto post-its.

And always the smell of shit.