Okay, let the air-conditioning wars begin

I got to work at 8am, there was nobody there, but the lights were on. I laugh to myself sometimes in the mornings when the lights are on but the floor is vacated, maybe a neutron bomb went off and I missed it and everyone is dead and I am left all alone at work. Ha ha. It was raining and I was probably too busy unblocking the drains with sticks to notice, or something.

Everyone is getting to the office later and later, now that Obese Olwyn has left and Fat Guts Carol Brady seems to be sleeping in now a days.

It's just me left of the Early Birdy Club.

Last week, it felt so hot in the office, on those really hot days. It must be really hot outside, I thought. But, upon investigation, the floor temperature was set to 25. 

"Oh, I see," I said to Fatty, "Let the aircon wars begin. 25 degrees indeed." 

The girls in the office say they are cold and yet Fatty, being a well padded girl and I (being a well padded girl, now a days, or a boy...) boil in our corner, so it is either us or them.

And the dial fiddling begins, "they" turn it up and I turn it down.

I am now checking intermittently throughout the day. I can live with 22 degrees, but I much prefer 21... but the chicks nipples go hard and crack at 21 degrees (age? I don't know. Chuckle, degrees) or some such thing. I have no idea. Their blood runs colder. The fat on their bodies, that they are always complaining about, doesn't insulate them as well.