This morning i had my usual Sunday walk, it was a little less time than last week's four hours, one and a half hours to be precise. I roamed some shops, picked up a few bits and pieces and headed home. After lunch coming over a little tired I decided to have forty winks. I see this as a privilege of age. Also its probably linked to the amount of Batternburg cake I ate, a big sin. I read somewhere when people do exercise they subconsciously give themselves a licence to eat junk. Well I'd say it's true. As I lay there counting sheep outside a diesel van pulled up. Suddenly and loudly blasted out "Popeye the Sailor Man" in a bell like jingle. It was an ice cream vendor, probably catching the beautiful weather and a few more sales in before autumn and winter kick in. After which his van will be locked in the garage for 6 months. Unless he has some dual use van and serves burgers on the side. Funny how kids will eat ice cream no matter what the weather is like or the prospect of pneumonia. So bloody Popeye jingled away and I woke up startled, wondering what the hell was going on. The first impulse was to kill the ice cream vendor and go back to sleep. The jingle didn't seem to stop. Eventually, after a while the van drove off. It's the distinctive diesel engine, pumping out those "p" particles as all diesel engines do. So small they have been found to be more damaging to the environment and humans than petrol once was. There was a moments silence as the vendor was no longer parked in our street, until it happened again. In another road, not so far away. Someone and the Ministry of Defence (MOD) could easily market guided ice cream vendor missiles, get two for the price of one. They'd make a fortune from disgruntled afternoon sleepers.
It's funny how fast the day has gone. Up late, breakfast, a walk back home, sleep, interruption, up again and then followed by some home work, which I'll not get paid for. Hell the Fish Factory has become worse than it has ever been. Maybe I should become an Ice Cream vendor. Maybe the man in the diesel van did work at the Fish Factory. Bastard, he got out of it. Escaped to a life of legitimate crime, robbing small children of their teeth by long term tooth decay. The Fish business stinks. It stinks of not enough fishes to run the business, no wage increases, over working and pressure. Last year I thought I was stressed, this year I realise last year was a walk in the park. All inside a brand new building, more like an open-planned car park than an open planned office. All they need is a ramp and the Ice Cream vendor will be able to drive up and hand out 99s or oysters for our mid morning snack rather than a cup of tea and a biscuit. With the many windows around it you could also argue it makes a good Fish bowl. If there's one thing I have now appreciated it's the normal office. With the advent of open plan offices actually doing work has become a premium. It just doesn't get done as well. Too much noise, too many distractions, loud voiced neighbours who you don't know but would like to throw out a window, whiffs of pungent perfumes which bring on asthma attacks, noise again, in fact so much noise you can't think, no self respecting knowledge worker can think in such a place. As for privacy, like making the phone call to a colleague you know is going to be difficult, becomes so much more difficult. The open planned office has become a regressive step and there is no stopping it. Except for Popeye the ice cream vendor, he might have the power to stop it, quite openly even. It's odd how the people who hold purse strings will say they have saved so much money by going open planned, but then after various studies begin to show there is lower productivity they are on the back foot making justifications for less work being done. The loss of orders, unless you sell ice cream.
I used to love the beginning credits of Popeye, it was one of those animations which marks growing up through childhood. Then I became and adult and now appreciate the sound of silence and time to think. It's about space for the mind. Where the mind runs, jumps and dances in cognitive aptitude. The ice cream vendor has gone for now, just so he can appear the next time I lay my head down in the afternoon. Between now and then there is a lot of time Popeye. A lot of time to think. Be afraid, be very afraid, the MOD is just a phone call away and I've got an idea which could help pull the country out of recession, we'd sell it to the rest of Europe. How to be rid of noisy ice cream vendors in one simple click of a button.
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