UPSIDE DOWN
- twist I -
I’m not addicted to my watch. But obviously I rely on it. You would too, if your time was measured in six-minute segments. For every six minutes of my working life, I’m supposed to bill a client. It all goes on a computerized time sheet, in itemized chunks.
11:00 -11:06 drafted contract for Project A
11:00 -11:12 amended documentation for Client B
11:12 - 11:18 consulted on point for Agreement C
When I first started working here at my parents company, the idea that I had to write down what I was working on, every minute of the day freaked me out slightly. I used to think: What if I do nothing for six minutes? What am I supposed to write down then?
11:00 - 11:06 stared aimlessly out of window.
11:06 - 11:12 daydreamed about bumping into Piolo Pascual along the streets.
11:12 - 11:18 attempted to touch nose with tongue
But if you’re name is Divine Smith, a CPA lawyer and the daughter of the owner of the Maitland-Smith Corporation, you don’t sit around. Not when every six minutes of your time is worth money. If I let six minutes of time tick away, I’ve lost the corporation 3450 pesos. Twelve minutes, 6900 pesos. Eighteen minutes, 10,350 pesos. And the truth is, you get used to measuring your life in little chunks. And you get used to working. All the time.
“Ms. Divine?”
It’s my secretary, Jessica. She only started three weeks ago and I don’t know her very well yet.
“You had a message while you were out. From Stephanie?”
“Stephanie from Red Times Company? OK. Tell her I got the e-mail about clause four, and I’ll call her about it after lunch—”
“Not that Stephanie...Stephanie your new cleaner. She wants to know where you keep your vacuum-cleaner bags.”
I look at her blankly.
“My what?”
“Vacuum-cleaner bags. She can’t find them.”...repeats Jessica patiently.
“Why does the vacuum cleaner need to go in a bag? Is she taking it somewhere?”...I say, puzzled.
Jessica peers at me as though she thinks I must be joking.
“The bags that go inside your vacuum cleaner...To collect the dust? Do you have any of those?”...she says carefully.
“Oh, those bags. Er…”
I frown thoughtfully, as though the solution is on the tip of my tongue. The truth is, I can’t even visualize my vacuum cleaner. Where did I put it? I know it was delivered, because the porter signed for it.
“Maybe it’s a Dyson brand. They don’t take bags. Is it a cylinder or an upright?”...suggests Jessica.
She looks at me expectantly.
“I’ll sort it.”...I say in a businesslike manner, and start gathering my papers together.
“Thanks, Jessica.”
“She had another question. How do you switch on your oven?”
For a moment I continue gathering my papers.
“Well. You turn the… er… knob...It’s pretty clear, really…”...I say at last, trying to sound nonchalant.
“She said it has some weird timer lock...Is it gas or electric?”
