Ennui (Directed by Chuck Leal)

Its 9ine am in a suburban Tasmanian shopping centre. I feel even more het up than usual from a snaking conga line of traffic gridlocked all the way back into the city, which left me alone with my thoughts and a CD of songs I don't even like anymore. It's hard to know which of those things frustrated me more. A woman is sitting at the Internet kiosk watching a clip of her grandson winning a sack race at a randomly assembled school sports carnival. It's hard to know if either the subject or watcher will ever be that happy again. The bogan girl with the tattoos in Banjos has been preparing my breakfast this week because I've struck down with a serious bout of ennui - tea leaves may thwart those who court catastrophe, but I can't even be bothered buying the tea leaves in the first place. I wish I didn't feel so flat. I don't work at the East German Labor camp version of our workplace with targets, meetings and inspirational videos, but I still need something to aim for. I'm a product of my nation - things are going OK, so claim the predictability is bringing you down. The bogan girl asks me if I want my usual - succour for my torpor from a bogan. How fitting. Every day feels exactly the same at the moment. I can even predict the Banjos staff movements, even though this is a new workplace. If the blonde 1ne with the ponytail is there she'll pretend to slice bread and ask some1ne else to serve. If the fat girl with flour on her fingers is there, she'll lumber up to serve slowly so some1ne beats her to it. The bogan girl will mention the weather...yes, it is a lovely day...yes, it is cold outside...yes, the hurricane did destroy my house...the bogan girl is smiling the demented smile of those with nothing but time in her life. I like her happiness, but her tattoo is a mess. You can only see it if she stacks something on the bottom shelf. It looks like a child’s finger painting effort - it's pretty much translates from Chinese for can I get a refund on this. And yes, I will have my usual. Damn it's delicious allegedly freshly made by fat girls with floury fingers but really mass produced taste...

The new girl at work is planning to ask some1ne in another office out. Apparently he makes her weak at the knees. I don't think I've ever made anyone weak at the knees. My old netball playing girlfriend said I made her feel safe. I said I don't know if it was a compliment, to be compared to a fire extinguisher or a smoke detector. Thus begun our long standing argument about how she could never say anything nice to me. Good times, precious memories. The new girl has the demeanour of some1ne who smiles all day then goes home to eat crackers and cry. I'm obsessed with her fake laugh. Not obsessed enough to ask her out of course. Sometimes in the office they talk about girly things and there's not much I can do to join in. I don't have anything to contribute to discussions about inter relationship mutual waxing or medieval sounding medical check up procedures. The worst thing about this office - perhaps the main reason for the ennui right now - is they all hate their boyfriends and none of them will leave them. 1ne stands outside the office at night in an essential kidnapping to make sure they go home together, 1ne bought Internet porn with her credit card, another 1ne has just got another girl pregnant. I just smile now - I can't save the world. I can only recommend songs for a heartbreaking mix tape. The other girl at work - the single 1ne - has given herself a mod haircut and spends all day long on the Internet looking at pictures of Lady Gaga. Essentially, I'm out of conversational options today. That is beyond the staples of office life - can't believe how quick today has gone, can't believe how slow today has gone, the invention of amusing office nicknames, that kind of thing. A redheaded woman with painfully thin watery eyes is waiting for her appointment. She's sitting almost rocking with rage, her eyes flicker and dart back and forth angrily as if she's trapped in some horrible never ending hell based tennis match. Not at us, but at her husband. It's not possible for me to feel basic human empathy some days. I wish I could, but I'm just too flat. I wonder if it would help if I walked past eating my Kit-Kat and said something about how quick the day has gone...

The air conditioning - defying all logical thought processes - has decided to now pump out nothing but hot air into our workplace. This after we had been excessively cold in the depths of winter and a man with a blotchy face told us it was essentially our fault for, I don't know, being near it. I press my face into my hands and pull 1ne of those faces people pull when they want other people to notice that they are tired. As hard as I've worked all day was editing a letter from my ironic girlfriend to the Tax Office. She hadn't spelled office correctly. I gently changed it. Eventually my quest to have every1ne notice I'm tired spills into outright saying gee I'm tired. A drunken man in a baseball cap is sitting cross legged in 1ne of our ergonomically structurally sound chairs awaiting his appointment. He doesn't appear soothed by the soothing music soothingly piped into the office. He also has a stack of papers so thick and bulging that it looks like he's about to attend the Treaty Of Rome. He drops them in an inevitable drunken manner, scattering them to the forewinds in a blur of paper and panic. He starts swearing really loudly. I study him to try and work out the exact problem, but give up quickly when he catches my inspecting gaze. The new girl goes out to help him, which is nice of her. It's only then I realise that, last week, a similar man had dropped all his papers all over the place and the new girl helped him pick them up - great, now even the interesting programs are repeats. I quickly go back to eating my Kit-Kat. No 1ne else in the office is moving. It's a sea of weary faces and indifferent expressions. In my supervision role, I should say something inspirational, but what's the point...too damn hot. The drunken man disappears into a frosted glass office for his date with destiny. The woman with watery eyes comes out of the other office, kicks 1ne of our ergonomically structurally sound chairs in frustration, and then disappears. No 1ne moves a muscle. Just that kind of day really...

I've spent the week at least doing something different. I've pushed back from my ironic girlfriend. It's just not going to work out - I found out today in casual conversation that her Dad 1nce chased her with a gun for an unspecified reason. When I go to my memory bank of parental neglect stories it's the time I had just taken the skin off my neck - long story - and my Dad told me off for asking the school nurse for another Tik-Tok biscuit. I like to chide him that maybe since I took the skin off my neck a pink Tik-Tok biscuit wasn't out of the question. There were no guns in our household - my Dad chased me round the house rubbing Manchester United victories in my house, that was about it. We're just far too different - our relationship had essentially become a series of shock and awe revelations on her behalf of problems I couldn't fix. Hell, my main concern today was trying to work out my favourite track off the 1st Britney album, I'm not sure that qualifies me to comment on the dying embers of some1nes marriage. I've run out of re-assuring words, I can't fix the world as I said and thus I've run out of things to say. Today I didn't send her any kind of instant message of support - there, there's your modern parting of the ways. I don't think I'm cut out for modern relationships anyway if the stories of inter relationship mutual waxing are anything to go by. She later tells some1ne in the office she's leaving her husband, who is of course standing outside waiting to kidnap her. This is now not my problem - she says tell me I'm doing the right thing. I shrug and say I don't know. My main priority, now I've made this decision, is pretty much to head off into the sunshine and try and work out why my Internet connection is so horrendously awful. She disappears into the metaphorical and literal distance as I climb into my car. The new girl heads in the direction of the office where the heartbreaker works to work her charms, and the cleaner pushes a mop mournfully around the tiled floor of our office with a back aching expression, all alone. Frankly, I know that look. It's the look you pull when you want people to know you are tired...I invented that look...I'd ask her how quick and or slow she thought the day had gone, but ya know, I've done enough listening for 1ne day...

Incidentally - Born To Make You Happy. Now that is a tune...