Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine

Good Days
When people ask me what I do—taxi drivers, hairdressers—I tell them I work in an office.
In almost nine years, no one’s ever asked what kind of office, or what sort of job I do there.
I can’t decide whether that’s because I fit perfectly with their idea of what an office worker looks like,
or whether people hear the phrase work in an office and automatically fill in the blanks themselves—lady doing photocopying, man tapping at a keyboard.
I’m not complaining. I’m delighted that I don’t have to get into the fascinating intricacies of accounts receivable with them.
When I first started working here, whenever anyone asked, I told them that I worked for a graphic design company,
but then they assumed I was a creative type. It became a bit boring to see their faces blank over when I explained that it was back office stuff,
that I didn’t get to use the fine-tipped pens and the fancy software.
I’m nearly thirty years old now and I’ve been working here since I was twenty-one.
Bob, the owner, took me on not long after the office opened. I suppose he felt sorry for me.
I had a degree in Classics and no work experience to speak of,
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