A box. 21 stories high.
100 metres across. 170 metres deep.
Containing 7,000 human minds.
Each and every one supressing the same thoughts.
What the hell am I doing this for?
What exactly is the point?
I can’t not do this.
I have bills to pay.
Kids to keep.
God, I need a holiday.
I don’t give a flying f*ck about data, big or otherwise.
Don’t ask me, please, don’t ask me, not me.
I cannot stand him.
I have to pay £1,500 a year just to travel to work?
If I hurry I could get out at 5:30 for the first time in weeks.
Not another bloody survey.
No amount of money is worth this.
I want more.
I want less.
A truly authentic examination of what the majority of people truly feel about their work would reveal this awful inner landscape. And yet people keep plugging away. Day after day. Week after week. Month after month. Year after year. Some do exceptionally well, some do well, some get by, some scrape by, some scrape the bottom of the barrel of your patience. Some you’ll “manage” out of the business. In their place you’ll get someone who’ll be outwardly delighted at being given a shiny new job and on the inside will be screaming “£1,500 for an annual travelcard?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!”
The very least you can do is show a bit of gratitude.