The Calm Before
Where I work, times are volatile right now.
Actually, they're volatile everywhere, but here, you really feel it. Being on what is practically the frontline of everything that's happened gives one both a thrill and a lonely sense of vulnerability.
These last few days, the office has been in a mad frenzy. Meetings are called at the drop of a hat and the respective desks have become completely jumbled in an effort to get as many people in on the action as possible.
The local women's group has staged the kind of upheaval only seen last in World War Two and thanks to a bizarre series of events, they are blundering along on a streak that looks to pit the homosexual camp against the religious, moral one. Any way you look at it, this can't go well, or look good on either party, particularly in this country. A big showdown slated for Saturday guarantees that almost none of us are going to get any rest despite the fact that tomorrow is Labour Day.
And then there's swine flu. In a move that shows both how prepared and just how terrified we are, a seperate office has actually been set up away from our permanent quarters and half the staff are going to be quarantined there while the rest are holed up here. For a month, two months, who knows how long, we'll be working separately, together, to try and document what seems sure to be a horrific outbreak.
When the inevitable happens, we will be there, with the kind of predatory glee that journalists get on breaking news, but also with fear and weariness.
Everyone was combing the lists with trepidation this afternoon. "I had to do this the last time with SARS," a colleague who had been drafted to the temporary office told me wistfully. "It was just awful." It will be strange to see the office half-empty, in limbo, unsure of whether we're going to be safe or succumb to illness. Almost like sending troops out to battle while staying home and polishing shells.
In a typical moment of black office humour, Mav and I speculated on what might happen if the giant women's group catfight on Saturday resulted in the kind of melee that would transmit swine flu between them faster than Twitter could announce it.
"That will be hilarious," she typed to me from two seats away. "It will be the biggest news of the year."
"Haha," I agreed. "To think, we will have to deal with bitches and swine together."
And then, we giggled like schoolgirls because right now, when this trudge becomes cautious and tortuous, we will still be laughing with each other over what aches may come.
It's all we really have.
Actually, they're volatile everywhere, but here, you really feel it. Being on what is practically the frontline of everything that's happened gives one both a thrill and a lonely sense of vulnerability.
These last few days, the office has been in a mad frenzy. Meetings are called at the drop of a hat and the respective desks have become completely jumbled in an effort to get as many people in on the action as possible.
The local women's group has staged the kind of upheaval only seen last in World War Two and thanks to a bizarre series of events, they are blundering along on a streak that looks to pit the homosexual camp against the religious, moral one. Any way you look at it, this can't go well, or look good on either party, particularly in this country. A big showdown slated for Saturday guarantees that almost none of us are going to get any rest despite the fact that tomorrow is Labour Day.
And then there's swine flu. In a move that shows both how prepared and just how terrified we are, a seperate office has actually been set up away from our permanent quarters and half the staff are going to be quarantined there while the rest are holed up here. For a month, two months, who knows how long, we'll be working separately, together, to try and document what seems sure to be a horrific outbreak.
When the inevitable happens, we will be there, with the kind of predatory glee that journalists get on breaking news, but also with fear and weariness.
Everyone was combing the lists with trepidation this afternoon. "I had to do this the last time with SARS," a colleague who had been drafted to the temporary office told me wistfully. "It was just awful." It will be strange to see the office half-empty, in limbo, unsure of whether we're going to be safe or succumb to illness. Almost like sending troops out to battle while staying home and polishing shells.
In a typical moment of black office humour, Mav and I speculated on what might happen if the giant women's group catfight on Saturday resulted in the kind of melee that would transmit swine flu between them faster than Twitter could announce it.
"That will be hilarious," she typed to me from two seats away. "It will be the biggest news of the year."
"Haha," I agreed. "To think, we will have to deal with bitches and swine together."
And then, we giggled like schoolgirls because right now, when this trudge becomes cautious and tortuous, we will still be laughing with each other over what aches may come.
It's all we really have.
She said, she said at 12:50 am
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