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  I’d like to say I was helping out a friend, doing it for charity, or it just looked like fun. But I can’t lie. During a spell ‘in-between’ careers, I worked as a temporary receptionist. It was a crap job but I needed the crap money that went with it.
Being a temp, I was given all the necessary training and attention required. “Desk’s over there, manual’s in the drawer,” rasped the burly office manager as she brushed me aside and slammed her office door. Great. Obviously I was going to be a valuable addition to the team.
The reception switchboard consisted of a huge screen filled with icons, flickering lights and a “Dave Williams holding on line 230” message that continued to flash no matter what button I pressed. My futuristic Lt. Uhura headset looked cool for about three seconds until my hair became entangled in it. The headset crackled, more lights flashed and Mr. Williams continued to hold on line 230. I had more chance of piloting the Starship Enterprise than driving this bloody thing. As well acting as a human telephone exchange I was expected to greet visitors, take messages from staff and generally be helpful. “I’ll be back at noon, let Tom know,” huffed an important-looking executive as he swanned out the door. “Yes, of course sir!” I replied, forgetting to add “I’ve only been here ONE hour… who the hell are you? And who the hell is Tom?” In a company of over five hundred people, there were six guys called Tom. And what was I supposed to say to them? “Some rude fat guy with a sweat-stained shirt has gone out. Can I take a message?”  As the receptionist I was the first point of contact - The Face of the company. Every other receptionist in the world looks calm and professional, with perfect make-up and that ‘straight out of the Spa’ look. Of course I had that ‘straight out of the drunk tank’ look. As the agony continued my composure slipped away. My makeup began to melt down my flustered face. My hands began shaking and tears welled in my eyes as I struggled to contain the flashing lights and irate callers.
Attempting to wrench the tangled headset from my hair, the hideous device struck my face. Blood poured down my cheek and all over my white shirt. The most professional thing I could right now was hide in the stock cupboard until 5pm. Never again. I’d rather stack cans of beans, clean vomit from aircraft toilets or work for the Government. I was never, ever working as a receptionist again. At least Mr Williams was patient enough to hold. Sorry, sir. |
Tiggy
