Post Offices and Printers

I thought to myself not long before Christmas, that I need to be a More Giving Person. You reap what you sow, I thought, you only get what you give, all that jazz. What's more my birthday cards and presents have rather begun to tail off being that I haven't sent any out myself since about 1996. Two birthdays of close friends have since passed and I am yet to send cards or presents, although I do have them on my desk. Have you ever tried to send anything when you work in the City? Jesus. Not only are post offices the most depressing places ever invented and situated at intervals of six miles from one another, but they also seem to be frequented only by women wearing velour tracksuits with muffin tops on display to all and sundry or really posh men in late middle age with no social skills and Burberry overcoats, most of whom are probably Colonels from the War. Were this not bad enough the queue always has at least 700 people in it and the desk has precisely one cashier behind it who has a moderate motor skill deficiency and an appalling personal hygiene problem. So, I hiked all the way to Liverpool Street for the second time and failed to send parcels again. Being a More Giving Person is not turning out to be all it's cracked up to be.

All of the printers in my office are named after French celebrities. This is the world I live in. The IT Manager approached me last week to tell me that we were getting a new one, as in the Posh New Office we are too far away from a half-decent printer. We're within striking distance of Coco Chanel and Thierry Henry but share with people from another department and frankly I don't want them rifling through my important documents. I was given the huge burden of naming it. You wouldn't think it would be that difficult, but found myself agonising over the decision. There could be some terrible faux pas. There are the obvious choices, such as Edith Piaf, but then I thought the French people in my office could see this as a terrible stereotype. I mean, if it were the other way round and they chose Cilla Black, for example, I would probably take it as a personal affront. My colleague, in an attempt to be helpful, suggested Oscar de la Renta and Frederic Chopin, neither of whom are French, so was really no help at all. I ran Juliette Binoche past a French colleague and it seems that she has no bad associations in France - hasn't gone the way of Kerry Catona or anything like that. He replied saying 'good idea', although I did ask him in French, in which I'm not exactly proficient, so I could well have asked him if he fancies a menage a trois with Juliette Binoche next Thursday week. Let's hope not.