remote cards

We work on an industrial estate on the side of town. Once upon a time
we owned all of this land. But sold it off and rented it back in that
corporate way that makes sense to someone. Between our buildings there
is a crappy little, almost home made looking, canteen. A ragged little
place, which raises eyebrows when visitors first see it – not quite
believing the sign above “SNACK BAR”. When I worked in Innovation the
newest member of staff came round the building some time between
9-10am. Going from floor to floor, with a trolley full of rolls and
crisps and sweets. Shouting “SNACK BAR!” as she comes to a stop, and
people jostling to join the queue, to see if they can get there first.
She alternated the route, so if she’d been to a busy floor before
yours then the trolley would be bare by the time you got there. Now I
am based in Technology. Here we have a little “coffee shop” – tables
and chairs, automated coffee machine, it’s called Connections. In this
building instead of doing the trolley routine, the woman turns up with
a cart in Connections, and unloads on to the counter. She is there for
a half hour. There is an official time, from which people will start
to line up. Though some days, particular Mondays, the real time is a
different thing altogether. Again timing is everything. Come down too
late and you’ll find an empty metal tray, or perhaps one last cheese
roll.

The man in front of me is the Chinese guy; he is usually one of the
first here, before the woman arrives, on the occasions that I come
down early. He fumbles to try and help, trying to get the tray up from
the trolley on to the counter, while she picks out the drink cans that
are rolling around, and the cartons of milk, and lines them up. The
guy in front of him kind of steps into help out of embarrassment.
Sorted, then the first guy takes a roll and gets served. The Chinese
guy rakes through the tray, reading labels, twitching and shrugging,
making little frustrated noises as he fails to find what he is looking
for. Finally settles on a choice and gets served. I follow suit, in
the mood for a roll today, a packet of crisps.

The woman that does the snack bar is a character. Its one of those
jobs you probably need to be. She ends up knowing the regulars quite
well, exchanges gossip, the kids, the hassle. Last time I was down,
last week, there was a young guy in work overalls, teasing her about
the price of Cadbury Crème Eggs. But then he says she’ll not see him
for a while anyway, going down south for a bit he is. So she gives him
the Crème Egg, a going away present, then grabs a Mars bar, gives it
to his mate, since that was the last Egg.

Then we go from there to join the line at the coffee machine.
Selecting paper cups, sachets, plastic lids, wooden stirrers, sugar
packs from the drawer. We put them in, and get our drinks, while the
weary looking man from the company that supplies the machine sits and
looks on. An out of order sign sits at the side of the machine; he has
just retrieved an ugly looking internal component. He shrugs, its ok,
he didn’t expect such a rush, but its fine. I think he needs to
diagnostics or something, but the dozen people making coffee probably
cancel that out anyway. Its done 90,000 drinks, he announces, that is
5 years work, in 2 years, and it needed to be gutted!