Having set my schoolbooks aside for a time in favor of full-time employment here in Sydney, I’ve learned some things that will come as sobering news to those of you who are still entertaining the illusion that there is life outside of college. Now, granted, I’ve studied mainly English literature and philosophy, so the fact that I wasn’t prepared for the real world wasn’t exactly a shock, but I think that even you engineers and business majors have a surprise in store for you. To get a thoroughly instructive experience, I attempted to obtain the most representative sample of life in the real world I could find, eventually answering an ad for “Common office slave, no exp. req.” My interview consisted of exactly one question: “Can you wear a tie?” Of course I cringed a bit at the thought of it, but I remembered, as my father and grandfather have repeatedly told me, that work is not supposed to be fun, so I offered the company my tie-wearing services. Now, the company I ended up working for is named, and I kid you not, Perpetual Trustees. After working here for a while I’ve become quite certain that this ambitious moniker is actually just a clever way of hiding the fact that the company doesn’t really do anything. Or at least if they DO do anything, I haven’t been able to figure out what it is yet. How could I? Questioning something so basic as the reason for the company’s existence, would indicate a heinous level of doubt directed at our employers, who are, after all, perpetually trustworthy. Down the street are the offices of our competitor, Permanent Trustees (honestly). I think they have a similar racket going. Of course, the upside of all this trusting is that no one asks me what I do, which is good, because I’m not sure I could tell them. I mean, I know what I do primarily. I stage elaborate military dramas on my desk between the forces of the gallant Sir Staplesalot and his fang-toothed arch-nemesis, Count Archibald Von Staple-Remover, but I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be doing. Apparently, wearing a tie is enough. I took a peek at some of our promotional booklets in an attempt to find out, without calling into question my superiors’ unwavering fidelity, what it is that we do. The pamphlets show illustrations of little cartoon men and women in business suits assisting other little cartoon people assemble simple 3-D shapes overlaid with comforting words like “care.” While I’m not sure in what circumstances people find themselves owning basic geometric figures, let alone how they manage to break them, apparently if your pyramid is missing its top, we are the company that cares enough to replace it. Merely lacking any sort of discernable aim would be much more bearable if the office place wasn’t so hideously, hideously ugly. This aesthetic deficiency is particularly pronounced in the sad visages of my coworkers. The level of personal ugliness is hard to convey to college students who are used to hanging around other attractive youths, all of whom sport vibrant and original clothing corresponds to vibrant and original frames of mind. But to give you an inkling, people in the real world are naturally much uglier than college students (age is the excuse commonly given). If their clothing reflects a frame of mind, it’s “suicidally bored.” Aside from the ravages of old age, the business suit is far and away the largest detractor from office beauty. Apparently I’m not the first to notice this. Mark Twain, the Seinfeld of his day, asked once “…and what’s the deal with business clothes?” or something to that effect. In a speech to congress, wearing a white corduroy suit, Mr. Clemens hypothesized that “the continual sight of dark clothing is likely to have a depressing effect” and supported “clothing reform” saying that a group of people in formal attire “looks like a flock of crows and is just about as inspiring.” On balance, though, it should be pointed out that he also advocated complete nudity as an alternative. As hideous as my colleagues and I are in suits, I must admit that it could be worse. As it turns out, there is good reason why the business suit is ugly. It was designed to be that way by British writer Edward Bulwer-Lytton, who saw it as a romantic gesture demonstrating that he was a melancholy “blighted being.” While it might be nice to think that the whole of the business community is still wearing suits in order to partake in this expression of righteous sadness, to be perfectly honest, I think most people just do it because everyone else does. So, what advice do I have for all of you considering donning a suit and joining the working week? Don’t. But if you must, you can join me as an employee in my new geometric shape repair business, Infinite Trustees. We’re in need of someone who can wear a tie.