“Could you repeat your name, please?” Incomprehensible muttering. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that. Would you mind repeating that one more time?” The caller from Vienna, who speaks at the rate of Robert Downey Jr on speed, is infuriated that I can’t process his name. “Sorry. Would you be able to spell that?”
This conversation will be repeated again and again throughout the day. Callers from Hong Kong, Brazil, Saudi Arabia, Germany and other faraway places are apparently oblivious to the fact that I’ve never met them and won’t recognise their entirely unique name straight away. So sorry. I’m not sorry.
There are, however, perks to sitting behind the imposing white desk in the entirely white reception area. Three impressive Apple screens shield us from clients and nervous interviewees waiting to be whisked into other entirely white rooms by massively important people. We talk about everyone. We judge them.
We, the three “ladies”, are the light relief for the rest of the office. With us, they can escape their crushing deadlines and dragon-like directors, swanning in for a chat or a joke – always loud, always hilarious. I smile, I laugh, while thinking, “You are an idiot.” The stupidity of clever people is truly impressive.
Ambition is also forgotten – not by me, but by them. The assumption is that I have none. Wrong: I am filled with ambition. This job has shown me who I don’t want to become. But it has given me a financial foothold by allowing me to save money. And at the end of my day, and my contract, I will be able to walk away from this office, never think of it again, and ignore the phone whenever I choose.
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