A warren of hallways split like the limbs of a tree divide the office into contained workstations piled with towers of paper and binder. Manilla sleeves bursting with endless disclosure are to be scanned from beginning to end. Letterheads are printed and signed warm, shipped into envelopes and stamped en masse. Letters that will please or upset their recipient. The phone will ricochet in response with demands and exchanged estimated values of priceless things. But soon the week draws down, inching it's way to Indian Friday. A delicious, curry filled naan transforms a menial Friday afternoon into a coma from which there is no redemption. A blissful complacency floating by the monotony of scribbled drafts moved to text, of organising binders with finite labels and crisp edges. The curry drunk giggles that wave through the office like a contagious hiccup, sticking clear of sensibilities. A mob of self proclaimed window lickers intoxicated by lamb korma, vindaloo, jalfrezi....
I used to work in a law office so tried to make it as dramatic as possible. I miss Indian Friday's. Maybe a tradition to start-up myself at home.