THE FIFTH DESK MOVE

I stood up and pointed at locations around the office, reminding myself of something, and counting.

"Six," I said out loud. "This will be my sixth desk here."

And so it is. We've moved desks, me for the fifth occasion. This time, to what feels like a bit more of a pokier location, facing the other way, and surrounded by people. My manager's manager, who now sits directly opposite me, has got up and left, hopefully to a meeting, and hopefully not out of horror.

I'm not sure I like a desk move. I had to hobble up and down the office with my stuff, clambering under tables and plugging things into the right ports. There are floor ports with ethernet cables, power cables for docking stations, power cables for monitors, data cables, adaptors, mouse cables, keyboard cables, USBs which aren't plugged into anything, a power bank trailing some ancient network cables like two long grey tails, and the usual collection of pen lids and old biros to find a home (or a bin) for.

At one point I was lying on the floor under the desk, hidden from my colleagues and the rest of the world, tightening the bolts on a power bank that clips to the back of the desk. It was warm, not uncomfortable and the lights in the ceiling twinkled above the wood. Plus, for a brief moment, there was no weight at all on my injured foot. I could quite easily have gone to sleep there and then.

I do wonder how it long it would have taken for anyone to notice.

Well, anyway, I emerged, switched on the power bank and carried on setting up my stuff.

-

"Matt!" said Marie, holding the kitchen door open as I went through it. "I had a dream about you!"

"Okay," I said, a little terrified. I mean, what is the proper response to that? I went with:

"That's weird, but go on."

She told me that she'd dreamed that we were all whisked off on a company jolly, and her and Junko and I were seated in front of several plates of caviar. She amused herself by being absolutely certain that I wouldn't know what caviar was.

I said that that wasn't very funny. Oh and also, I'd have a hard time identifying one type of caviar from the next. It has always seemed to me like one of those things wealthy people eat as a status symbol, rather than it having any intrinsic niceness to it. I may be wrong of course - they might all be being completely sincere about its flavour tickling the palate and delighting the tongue. On the other hand, they might be saying that to fit in.

"I obviously don't move in those social circles," I said.

"I didn't think you did," replied she. I don't think it was a joke.

I raised an eyebrow and wandered into the kitchen.

-

I think it's just the newness of the desk that makes it feel small and uncomfortable. I reckon I'll be alright in a few days. It'll become familiar to me, eventually carrying a sort of acquired niceness that just becomes part of normality.

That of course, must be what happens with every acquired taste. Initially, the instinct is to hate it, because it's actually foul. Then later, with a little perseverance, it becomes familiar: homely, a treat, or perhaps a gentle reminder of all that's good in the world. Its flavour changes and to your surprise, you find yourself growing to like it.

Plus everyone else in your circle tells you that they do too - and then the new desks feel like the old desks and it would suddenly be weird to go back.

Maybe I do know something about caviar.