New year, new beginnings, new hopes, new appliances.
Yes, new appliances. I bought BMA HQ a new microwave over the break, and I can’t tell you the giddy thrill it delivered sneaking into the office before the first day and eagerly installing it, and by that I mean plugging it in (I was trying to sound manly and knowledgeable by saying ‘installing’ when I am distinctly not; I could out mince Will Scarlett).
My excitement is two fold. Our old microwave did exactly what its title suggests, in that it emphasised the micro when it came to power and ‘waved’ goodbye to the concept of heat. It was as slow as a turtle with a limp; you could heat up last night’s scraps faster by flapping your arms rapidly over the plate to generate kinetic energy. It had two heat settings - Off, and Really? - and instead of offering a range of meat defrost options it simply had a crank labelled Misc. The final straw came one day late last year when a very hungry Paul the Ad Manager had to wait half an hour to defrost some soup. I could see him grow pale and wan before my eyes. In the end he conceded defeat and stabbed a fork into the icy husk to create a rudimentary broccoli flavoured icypole. Further to this, despite a staunch refusal to generate heat on the inside, the Tepidator 100 tended to burn an eerie incandescent purple shadow against the kitchen wall when dispiritedly attempting to warm something, which should be of concern except for the fact that the microwave has been here as long as the old geezer down the hall. He’s been here for years and seems to be fine. The flaky skinned wag.
Now, we have a nuclear powered Zap-o-tron Three Billion with 87 heat settings (the weakest of which is Supernova) and I can happily report that not only does it make a sound akin to a lightsabre when you press Fire!, it can turn a Titanic-sized iceberg of soup into liquid magma within five seconds. It’s so pleasing to see the burnt and charred lips of Paul the Ad Man curl into a smile.
You wouldn’t think an appliance costing a mere $300 should summon so much joy, but this brings me onto the second reason for my excitement; the symbolism it carries with it. Whereas public service offices will hoof out a fleet of new computers every half year to keep up to date, and order new stationary cupboards with the same frequency we’d order a new pencil, the tightly fiscal nature of small business means that you often rag daily essentials into the ground before you concede to buying a replacement. This is why walking into a street press office can often be a delightful romp back in time; akin to walking around the set of The Flintstones (“It’s a living!”). So the ability to make the humble yet long overdue purchase of a microwave - thus ensuring my staff don’t go starving for another day - is a minor fistpump for the very lower end of the corporate world.
And if you happen to be in the neighbourhood and need a burrito nuked or some sensitive documents destroyed, drop in and we’ll gladly disintegrate.
Good to see you all again. Missed you, I have.
