The Contingency Plan

Nine to Five
 
At the end of an alley way between a boutique of shoes and one of Sydney's finer restaurants, past the graffiti, garbage cans and a storage space for the Australian Centre of Photography you'll find a shiny three story glass and steel building surrounded by a jacaranda purple wall and a tall metal grate.
 
Once buzzed into the building and through a hallway of glass you'll approach a reception desk in the shape and colour of a big green apple. Originally designed to turn into an after hours bar, the area to the left of the apple is adorned with a sofas of fuchsia and eggplant, and a low riding silver coffee table that boasts a striking arrangement, created by a local artist who was originally a plumber.
 
My work place radiates colour and light. Each outside wall is made of glass and is designed to provide plenty of sunlight and take advantage of an irresistible afternoon breeze. 
 
But beyond this, one of the things you'll notice first and foremost is the noise. Yes, we're all positively mad. I know I've raved about how much I want a break, but that's more a reflection of me.
 
My boss, Bridget, started the company 14 years ago as she was tired and bored of being corporate. She left and the three biggest accounts in the agency/country followed.
 
Bridget is a big, boisterous and contagiously funny Jewish woman that spills throughout the office greeting us in Japanese or telling us of her latest faux paus. There's usually one each week. I think it's why clients, journalists and celebrities love her so much. She's extremely intelligent, witty and blunt but not afraid to seem silly; she's not afraid to be herself, in full technicolour with the sound comfortably blasted up high.
 
And then there are the stories. She's always full of stories. Like the time her son's nanny ordered ham and pineapple pizza for his birthday party, which was attended by many of his classmates who attend Sydney's most exclusive Jewish primary school. Apparently the mortification on the faces of the yuppie mothers who witnessed their precious children happily wolfing down the pizza was priceless. Bridget spent the next Monday afternoon in her son's principal's office, being rebuked while sitting on one of those tiny primary school chairs. She was then made to staple a stack of newsletters. 
  
Or there's the brilliant deal she has with her hairdresser, Dolly. He receives free botox injections (from Bridget's plastic surgeon hubby) and in return Bridget gets her hair done whenever she likes. The result is that Dolly actually looks like one and often comes into the office with a kit of equipment to do Bridget's hair during a management meeting or something else inappropriate.
 
Today she is being filmed about her stomach, which was recently stapled. One of my friends is wearing a black glittery t-shirt she made (as a joke), which says our company rocks, our accountant has her dog here (Andy the dog joins us about once a week), and another colleague has her luggage by her desk as she's flying (first class) to Greece tonight. Her dad's worth over $250 million and she thinks Jessica Simpson has the perfect marriage. Today we also start training for an internal competition where an internship at one of London's most prestigious PR agencies is up for grabs. The company will pay for us to fly there for a month, provide our accommodation and a basic living allowance. Apparently the money was on me winning before Wolfie came along. Dang.
 
Anyhow, I think I'm pretty lucky to work here.