You Will Be Assimilated. Resistance is Futile.

We moved to a new co-working office today. Gone is our lovely group of desks amongst the treetops of King Street, with its access to Leroy the barista and a short walk to Southern Cross Station. Gone is my quick trip on the train. 

Instead, I now take the tram to Spring Street and walk the few minutes to our new office on Exhibition Street, at the Paris End of town. 

It may only be two kilometres away from the old office, but this new building may as well be on the moon. 

I should say that this building houses one of the big four accounting firms. You know the ones - they charge exorbitant amounts to tell your big business what you're doing wrong. They often send in young kids, who dress well, in packs. They seem to work every hour God gives them. 

This office building appears to be their mothership. The workers are like battery hen clones of each other. The men are in either RM Williams straight-legged trousers, ironed Paul Smith or Charles Tyrwhitt shirts, slim-fitting showing off gym-honed physiques. The women are a uniform of grey, black or navy trousers, with a fitted pale t-shirt, covered over with a navy or grey jacket or duster coat. Their hair is universally long and straight, the keratin treatments doing their thing. 

I spotted, while waiting for my coffee, bags from Prada, Coach and Louis Vuitton. (No need to tell people about my utilitarian backpack that's been around the world a couple of times, nor my Uniqlo banana bag for essentials). 

Two colleagues and I had gone downstairs from our perch with the view of the back of the Sofitel to find some caffeine. 

"Oh, here we go. We're in the realms of The Borg," said one colleague. 

(Who said employees of the big four accounting firms don't know how to have fun?)

I cracked up laughing. "Oh, I like that."

Our other colleague looked perplexed. "The Borg?"

"Star Trek reference," we told her. 

"I'm too young for that."

"You're never too young for Star Trek."

We explained about the Borg, and how they takeover places and mess them up. (Sounding familiar?) They are termites. Catfish. Bottom feeders. They are there to royally screw you up then run away. 

So, we stood around in our Darwin best, underdressed, waiting for our beverages. It did feel strange listening as Angus, Lachlan, Cassandra, Emelia and Nathalie had their names called to get their coffees. The blokes all looked like they came from the top-flight private schools, the girl's names were fresh off a ballet class roll call.

It was quite surreal. 

It is amazing how a couple of city blocks can change everything. 

And I will continue to wear my red dress and white leather runners to work with my messy hair and not give a toss. Assimilation be damned. 

Today's song: