Following some intensive lobbying from the “Relocation Committee”, we are allowed to visit our new premises. 

“It’s like being on a school trip!” Melinda trills, swinging her hands happily as she totters along the road.

“It’s not like any school trips I ever went on,” Danielle huffs.

Nor me.  

Clive, Simon, Danielle, Melinda, Tarquin and I are trailing along Bishopsgate in order of enthusiasm.   Clive is marching , purposefully, ahead, like an eager history teacher; behind him Simon and Tarquin are competing to be favourite; Melinda is next, skipping along in a daydream; then Danielle, grumbling about her shoes hurting her; and, finally me, dawdling at the back and pretending I am not associated with any of them.

 ”Here we are,” Clive comes to a halt outside a glitzy granite-clad building. “Our new home!”

“Home” is the right word: the place we are destined to spend two thirds of our living hours……..

“Oh,” Melinda, puts her hand on her hips and gazes up at the pink/grey facade. “It’s not very attractive, is it?”

“Depends what you class as attractive,” Clive muses.

“It’s a fine example of mid-Thatcher-era architecture,” Simon informs her. “Glass and chrome echoing the resurgence in Art Deco design during that period and demonstrating the resurgence in power of the City’s financial institutions.  You may note the geometric shapes and Egyptian detailing.”

“It looks like my local nightclub,” she sniffs.

“The one that does the wet T-shirt competitions?” cries Danielle.

“Spasm?  Yeah.”

“Ohmigod, you’re right!  It does!  I wonder if The Boss knows!?”

It was probably the deciding factor in his decision.

“Come on,” Clive orders, conscious of the stream of businessmen listening to this debate.  ”Let’s see what the inside is like.”

He sweeps us through the revolving doors before we can protest.  

The foyer is of similarly epic proportions: to our left is gleaming glass desk surrounded by tropical plants, to the right a bank of leather sofas sprawl between modern art installations, and to the rear (in front of the lifts) is a waterfall and rock pool.  

“Goldfish?” Melinda peers in.  “You’ve got to be kidding?!”

“Koi Carp, actually,” Tarquin sniffs.

“Same thing.”

“How ridiculous,” Danielle declares, “putting a fish pond in Reception!  Some idiot is bound to end up in there after too many beers.”

“Someone could drown.” Melinda agrees.

“I’m sure that won’t happen,” Clive assures her.

“But it might.”

“Yeah,”  Danielle nods. “And not just by accident.  There could be staff murders in that pool.”

“I think that’s unlikely.”

I don’t…..

They turn back to gaze at the fish.

“It’s quite pretty I suppose,” Melinda concedes.

“I’m sure it’s not there to be pretty,” Simon declares.  “There have been several psychological studies about the calming effects of water in a business environment.”

“Really?”

“Yes. ”

“Well, it’s not going to be much use to us stuck down here in Reception, is it?”

“Not unless we hold team meetings down here,” Danielle suggests.   

“What a brilliant idea! “Melinda agrees. “I’d much rather feed the fish than listen to all the nonsense about targets and billing and stuff.”

I wasn’t aware that she did listen to any of that.

“I think the pool is for our clients’ benefit,” Clive points out.

“Why?” Danielle laughs. “Do they need calming down before they come to see you lot?”

Judging by the mental state of most of our clients: yes.

Before we can debate this further  Jeannette’s new “assistant”, Ashley, appears; arms full of tape measures, assorted plans and office-move paraphernalia.

“Hello,” she greets us. “Are you from Litigation?”

“Yes.”

“Great, follow me and I’ll show you up to your new floor.”

We have a whole floor to ourselves?!  Blimey.  That makes a change from sharing with the oddballs in the Insolvency Team; no more hiding their “special” coffee cups in the kitchen or slipping salt into their sugar rations.  Shame.

Ashley pops us in the lift and ushers us up to the fourth floor.  The doors open to reveal a wide expanse of speckled carpet tiles, ringed by a distant wall of glass.

“Is this it?” Danielle seems disappointed.

“This is it!” Ashley beams. “I’m here to help with the internal fit-out.  The plan is that each floor will have the same basic plan, but the relocation teams will be able to advise on layout/storage/facilities etc.”

“I see,” Clive nods. “I understand that you have the provisional sketches to show us?”

“Indeed I do.   Would you like to see them now?”

“Yes, please.” 

She spreads them out in the centre of the floor for us to see.   Aside from a few square boxes around the left side, there appears to be nothing but a series of circular desks, scattered about.

“Open plan?!”  We gasp.  

“Yes,” she looks up, surprised by our reaction.

We all stare to Clive.

“Not open plan, as such,” he mumbles. “The provisional idea is to have semi-enclosed work stations.”

“Like a call centre?”

Tarquin looks like he might have a seizure.  “A call centre!”

“No, not like a call centre.” Clive gives me a warning look.   “More like an investment bank or an architects’ office.”

Simon is shaking his head. “Let me get this straight: the office will be open plan, for all the fee earners?” 

Clive hesitates.  “Almost all.”

We glance back at the plans and note the initials pencilled in to the square boxes on the left:  AS, MM, CC, MM and VL.

“Except the partners!” he points to the enormous corner office reserved for The Boss.

Clive doesn’t meet our gaze.

“That is outrageous!” Tarquin storms. “If you are not prepared to do it, how can we be expected to work, open plan?”

“Well, er, I…I’m sure…in time……”

“We manage it,” Danielle points out.

“That is a matter of opinion,” he snaps.

“What do you mean by that?!” Her hands fly to her hips.

“Well,” he turns around. “Your definition of work is squeezing in a bit of typing between discussions about soap operas and leg waxing techniques.”

“You patronising sod!” she erupts. 

I fear she may launch herself at his throat, but Clive intervenes. 

“There is no need to compare roles.  It is true that the fee earners and the support staff have different functions and different requirements but that is one of the reasons we’re all here today.  These plans are not set in stone, they are open to debate.”

“So if all the fee earners say they need offices, they will get them?”

“I can’t promise that.  The Management Board is anxious to move away from the traditional law firm layout and try something new.”

“It wants to save money on fit-out costs, doesn’t it?”

“Well….er…. it thinks its lawyers can do their jobs just as well like this,” he nods. “Studies have shown that open plan facilities lead to more co-operative workers.”

“I have no desire to ‘co-operate’ with my co-workers,” Tarquin says, with distain.

Me neither.  It’s all I can do to avoid them, usually.

“In fact,” Simon argues. “Several studies have shown that, whilst open plan offices are ok for some businesses.  They are very bad for professionals - as they lead to stress, conflict and high blood pressure.”

“My immune system will not be able to cope.” Tarquin asserts. 

Neither will my mental faculties.

“I understand your  concerns,” Clive soothes, “but a lot of other firms manage it.”

Other firms don’t have Tarquin on the pay roll.   

But I try to think of a more practical approach. 

“Pragmatically,”  I point out.  “Litigators need to spend a lot of time reading and drafting documents.  It will be very difficult to do this if we don’t have solitude.”

“Helen’s right.” Tarquin flicks an accusing glance at Danielle.  “Our output is bound to suffer if we have to listen to what’s happening in EastEnders every day.”

“EastEnders isn’t on every day,” she scowls back.

“Well, perhaps this is a point you can present to The Management Board?” Clive offers.

“Indeed, we shall,” he nods, ”but it’s a pity that our, so called, “superiors” haven’t considered this already!  Had they done so they might have appreciated that saving a few thousand pounds on partitioning materials could cost them hundreds of thousand of pounds of lost fee earner time!”

“Not to mention fee earning staff,” I warn.

Nevermind Tarquin.  Jane will never stand for working open plan.  And, to be frank, I’m not sure the rest of us could stand her doing so either. 

“There will be a mass exodus!” Tarquin agrees. 

Clive smiles, an apologetic smile.  ”Leaving that aside for the moment, do you think we could consider what other facilities we might need?”

“Toilets,” Melinda is quick off the mark.

“I hope there is no suggestion of them being open plan!” Tarquin folds his arms.

“I don’t think there is any chance of that,” Clive smiles.

“We don’t want any of that Ally McBeal shared nonsense either,” Danielle fires a warning look at Tarquin. “Us girls want our own, private, facilities.  We don’t want to share with people who can’t pee in a straight line.”

“I can assure you: we have no desire to share with you either,” he counters. ”We don’t want our facilities invaded by Tampon dispensers and pot pourri.”

“And we don’t want skid marks and wet patches on the floor!”

“Ok,”  Clive steps in again. ”That’s good.  We have finally agreed on something: single sex toilets it will be.  Now, the next thing is to consider how many of these we might want?”

“There needs to be twice as many female facilities as male,” Melinda continues. 

“Why’s that?”

“Cos there are twice as many women, than men, in our team.” 

“And men are much quicker at whipping their bits out, ” adds Danielle, which prompts another look of astonishment from the Tarquin and a loud, snorting laugh from Melinda.

Clive looks at me, again.  I say nothing.  How can I top that?

“Tarquin, Simon?” he asks.

“I have no comment to make on that last statement,” Tarquin sniffs. “I do not wish to discuss my bodily functions with the support staff.”

Cue another round of laughter from Danielle and Melinda.  ”I do not wish to discuss my bodily functions with the support staff ! ha ha ha!”

With a warning look in their direction Clive, bravely, soldiers on. “Thank you ladies.  That’s another point agreed: we need to have twice as many female cubicles as male.”

“They don’t necessarily need cubicles,” Danielle (still laughing) points out. “Urinals will do……”

She says ‘urinals‘ with such obvious relish, it makes Tarquin flinch.

“Do you have any response to that?” Clive asks him.

He flushes, puce.  “No.  I am sure the firm is capable of catering for our requirements.”

Simon has plenty to say though.  “Can we make sure that there is an adequate amount of space between them?” he asks.  “It’s not very comfortable, standing next to some of our larger colleagues.”

This sends Danielle into a paroxysm of amusement.  “I bet!!!”

“You see what I mean,” Tarquin gestures to Clive. 

“Danielle,” Clive warns her.

“What?!” she gasps. “He said it!  It’s not me who feels uncomfortable standing next to larger members of staff!”

Off she goes again.

“You know what I meant,” Simon reasons, but too late. 

“Oh, yes, you poor thing!  It must be awful for you!”

I fear it’s getting to that time in the trip when the teacher gives up and makes us all get back on the bus. 

“We may consider this point back at the office,”  Clive warns.  “We need to move away from lavatories.”

“It’s a very important topic,” Melinda giggles. 

“Nevertheless, can we please move on to something else?”

“Kitchen?”  Danielle  suggests.  

Nice to see where their priorities lie: first rest rooms and now catering facilities…..

“Ok,” he agrees. “I suppose we will need a kitchen area.  What will we need in it?”

“Fridge, kettle, toaster, microwave, water cooler, bins…”

“Do we need a kettle?” Simon asks. “Can’t we just get one of those hot water dispensers?”

“Perhaps.”

“What about a proper coffee maker?  And a vending machine?” 

“Again, we can ask.”

“I would like somewhere to store my cereal without fear of theft.” Tarquin looks, accusingly, at Simon.

“I never took your stupid muesli!”  he protests.

“That’s strange; it began to disappear from my office the very same time as you moved in.”

“Do I look like a muesli-eater?!”

To be fair, he doesn’t; he looks like the kind of man who exists on protein shakes and raw eggs.   Tarquin, on the other hand, is the archetypal muesli-eater…….

“What is a muesli-eater supposed to look like?” he demands.

Simon looks him up and down. 

“What are you trying to say?”

“If someone really is stealing your precious muesli,” he snaps. “Your thief will be a pasty faced, mummy’s boy with a penchant for musical theatre - or a girl.  Real men don’t eat museli.”

“How dare you -”

 Clive is obliged to step in again.

“This has nothing to do with what we are considering,” he shoots them a warning look.  “Now,  is there anything else we need for the kitchen?”

“An ice-cream maker,” says Melinda.

“What a great idea!”  Danielle agrees.

“What do the rest of you think?”

I think it’s absurd.  Tarquin and Simon are, equally, sneery so Clive rules it out.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” he observes.

“What about a donut fryer?”

“Absolutely not.”

“But Alistair loves donuts.”

“Does he?”

“Yes.  They’re his favourite.”

“Then if he wants one, I’m sure he will request one.”

Ashley has been silent until now but, seizing the lull in conversation, she takes the chance to remind us why we’re here.

“I don’t wish to spoil your fun,” she interrupts. “Kitchens and bathrooms are important, but perhaps you ought to concentrate on really vital things like filing facilities, information technology, etc?”

“Of course,” Clive agrees; glad to get away from urinals and donut makers. “So, how much storage do we all need?”

“I require forty two shelves,” Tarquin  informs him. “Each measuring four feet by ten feet, two sets of drawers and three free standing filing units.”

“If we go open-plan I don’t think we can cater for that amount of storage.”

“Another reason not to go open plan,” he suggests.  ”I shall not be able to do my job with anything less.”

“If we are going open plan, we will, also, need quiet rooms,” Simon adds. “A lot of them.  And space to spread out big documents.”

“So, really, we might as well just have offices,” sniffs Tarquin.

Clive sighs and notes this down.  “Photocopiers?”

“At least, four,” I tell him. “We also need two shredding machines and space for about twenty printers.”

“Is that correct?” he looks a Melinda and Danielle.

Danielle nods. “Yeah, we use tons of equipment.”

“And I’m not sitting next to any electronic devices,” Tarquin  warns. ”They upset my concentration.”

Simon agrees.  “And several papers have proven a link betweeen elecrtomagnetic radiation and cancer.”

“See?! ” Tarquin squeals. “Even worse!”

“Ok,” Clive makes another note.  “What else?”

“We’ll need recycling points,”  I add, “and fax machines.  Then there’s the Litigation Library, the precedent bank, the paralegal station and the stationery cupboard  – where is all that going to go?”

“I’m not sitting next to the paralegals either,” Tarquin adds, “The photocopier is extremely noisy.  I would be sure to develop tinnitus.”

“What’s that?” asks Danielle.

“Ringing in the ears.”

“Oh, right,” she frowns. “then me neither.”

“Nor me,” Melinda shakes her head, “And I don’t want cancer neither.”

“None of us should have to sit near anything which could damage our health!”

“Does that include colleagues?” I wonder.

“It should,” Simon agrees.  “Putting antagonists together is bound to be combustible in an office environrment.”

Clive puts down his pen and gives another long sigh.  “This is going to be a lot more complicated than I thought.”

We nod in silent agreement.

“Perhaps we should just stay where we are?” Danielle suggests. “This move is just going to make everyone unhappy.”

“Everyone, except the partners,” Tarquin points out but, judging by the pained expression on poor Clive’s face, I’m not sure that’s true.