and I turned up for the interview with a black eye, a couple of missing teeth and a broken arm.
Maybe he sensed, back then, that I would never aspire to anything more than a poorly paid office job,
that I would be content to stay with the company and save him the bother of ever having to recruit a replacement.
Perhaps he could also tell that I’d never need to take time off to go on honeymoon, or request maternity leave. I don’t know.
It’s definitely a two-tier system in the office; the creatives are the film stars, the rest of us merely supporting artists.
You can tell by looking at us which category we fall into. To be fair, part of that is salary-related.
The back office staff gets paid a pittance, and so we can’t afford much in the way of sharp haircuts and nerdy glasses.
Clothes, music, gadgets—although the designers are desperate to be seen as freethinkers with unique ideas, they all adhere to a strict uniform.
Graphic design is of no interest to me. I’m a finance clerk.
I could be issuing invoices for anything, really: armaments, Rohypnol, coconuts.
From Monday to Friday, I come in at 8:30. I take an hour for lunch.
I used to bring in my own sandwiches, but the food at home always went off
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