Ground/Receiving

I don't know if it's part of being raised with a power drill thrust into my hand at every possible instance, the upbringing at the hands of an engineer, the do-it-yourself farmer attitude that's in my blood, or the inane knowledge that I'm less likely to screw up a table than a letter, but I am having a hard time adapting to the rigidly specialized nature of Parliament Hill. Let me back this story up a bit. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a screwdriver on the hill? The fact that I wanted to re-assemble our table was shocking enough ("Just call central, they have guys that come up and do that for you.") but the actual act of procuring tools is not something that the service staff on the hill smile upon. I thought that they were going to make me fill out paperwork, and I'm relatively certain that I would have to if I had wanted a hammer.

The looks that I get when I, an office staffer, walk around in the recieving section are pretty frightening to say the least. It's little wonder. The service staff spend their time putting together tables, moving filing cabinets, and generally doing all the technical things that office staff are too emeciated or incompetent to perform. I do not doubt that they secretly hate each and every one of us for being totally unable to remedy a paper jam or hang a picture. When one of those office cretins starts wandring around aimlessly on their floor, the one place they are safe from the tie wearing bastards, looking for tools that they will certainly use to break something else, little wonder they get hostile. Plus, I don't speak French and every one of the humans down there comes from Quebec.

I'm an incompetent anglo intruding on their turf trying to take their tools so I can only make a problem worse that they will have to fix later. I'm kind of amazed that I lived to write this. They could have killed me, shipped me off in Parliamentary mail to Nunavut, and never been caught. How could anybody ever prosecute the Parliament Hill staff? If they stopped doing their jobs, the whole hill would collapse in a matter of hours. When MPs can't have their chairs re-upholstered over the weekend, they panic. The country would descend into chaos in a week.

In case you're wondering, I was not able to get the table put together anyway. The screwdriver they gave me was insufficient for the task and I was too afraid to ask for another one. This isn't a good spot for me. I feel emasculated when I can't fix a table or a fax machine on my own, but I'm too intimidated to procure the supplies required to do it myself. Perhaps this is no accident. The service staff are godlike-powerful, as I've already mentioned. Perhaps they are training the civil servants of Ottawa to be dependant upon them, so when we have become fat and lazy and unable to open our own doors, they will stike, we will die in our offices, and they will seize control of the country and create a socialist workers paradise! Oooh... you tricky bastards! I'm onto you now. I'm bringing my own screwdrivers on wednesday, and I will fight you to the grave, one table at a time.