Office Life Archives - untypicable.

If Dogs Were Co-Workers: A Performance Review

Dwight Warner — Tue, 10 Feb 2026 10:00:00 +0000

I have worked with enough people to know two things.

First, offices are not professional environments. They are adult kennels with spreadsheets.

Second, every colleague you have ever had can be accurately described as a dog breed. Sometimes this is flattering. Sometimes it explains why they respond to emails at 11:47pm with the emotional intensity of a border dispute.

This is not judgement. This is classification. A public service. A small attempt to impose order on the strange ecosystem we have built around Teams meetings, vending machines, and the shared delusion of “circling back”.

What follows is a workplace performance review of the twelve most common canine colleagues.

1. The Labrador Retriever (The People-Pleasing Generalist)

The Labrador is the colleague who replies first, volunteers immediately, and somehow ends up owning half the department’s workload out of sheer friendliness.

They will say “happy to help” even when they are clearly not happy and do not have the time.

Strengths: dependable, kind, universally liked. Will fetch anything you throw at them, including other people’s responsibilities.

Risks: cannot say no. Slight tendency to burn out quietly while assuring everyone they are “fine”.

Dwight’s note: The Labrador is the reason management believes understaffing is sustainable.

2. The Border Collie (The High-Functioning Overachiever)

The Border Collie has colour-coded spreadsheets, an alarm for “deep work”, and the slightly haunted eyes of someone who has never truly relaxed.

They are always early. They always have an agenda. They treat every project like a sheep-herding problem, and they will herd you if you let them.

Strengths: output, speed, precision. If work were oxygen, the Border Collie would be able to breathe underwater.

Risks: cannot switch off. Will reorganise your work “to help” and then look surprised when you become passive-aggressive.

Dwight’s note: The Border Collie’s idea of a break is making a second spreadsheet about the first spreadsheet.

3. The German Shepherd (The Policy and Security Person)

The German Shepherd knows the rules, knows why the rules exist, and will remind you of them at the exact moment you attempt to do something informal.

They sit in meetings like a bouncer with a clipboard.

Strengths: protective, conscientious, dependable. Excellent in a crisis. Will guard the team from nonsense.

Risks: can drift into suspicion. Not a natural fan of “fun” or “creative ambiguity”.

Dwight’s note: The German Shepherd has never said “we’ll just see how it goes” without visibly flinching.

4. The Jack Russell Terrier (The Chaos Starter)

The Jack Russell is small, fearless, and powered entirely by adrenaline and spite.

They will start debates in the group chat “for clarity” and then refuse to let them die.

Strengths: energy, bravery, the ability to ask questions everyone else is too polite to ask.

Risks: cannot drop anything. Ever. Will chase minor issues into the ground until everyone is exhausted.

Dwight’s note: If you think there isn’t a Jack Russell in your team, you are the Jack Russell.

5. The Golden Retriever (The Culture Ambassador)

The Golden Retriever is the colleague who keeps morale alive through sheer warmth. They organise birthdays, remember your dog’s name, and manage to sound genuinely pleased to see you at 9am.

Strengths: team cohesion, kindness, and the rare ability to make people feel included.

Risks: optimism can become a coping mechanism. Sometimes weaponised positivity appears: “We’ve got this!” (We do not have this.)

Dwight’s note: The Golden Retriever is why your workplace still occasionally feels like a community rather than a holding pen.

6. The Dachshund (The Passive-Aggressive Specialist)

The Dachshund is small, smart, and has an excellent memory for slights.

They will not argue. They will simply store resentment in a private archive and release it later as a polite email with sharp edges.

Strengths: detail-oriented, loyal, quietly competent.

Risks: grudges. Also, a strong attachment to being right.

Dwight’s note: If a message begins with “Just to clarify…” the Dachshund has already chosen violence.

7. The French Bulldog (The Vibes-Only Colleague)

The French Bulldog is always present, always charming, and somehow never the person responsible for the difficult bit.

They contribute morale more than labour. They are excellent at saying “that’s wild” while everyone else is drowning.

Strengths: lifts the mood. Great at softening tension. Often beloved.

Risks: a surprising absence of output. Frequently “in a meeting”. Sometimes breathes like an unplugged vacuum cleaner.

Dwight’s note: If the French Bulldog left tomorrow, the team would miss them. Also, some work might finally get done.

8. The Siberian Husky (The Dramatic Remote Worker)

The Husky communicates like they are narrating an epic saga.

They will join calls with a solemn face and announce, “Right. So. I have concerns.” Then they will describe a small issue as if it threatens civilisation.

Strengths: charisma, boldness, honesty. Not afraid of conflict.

Risks: volume. Drama. The tendency to turn every minor inconvenience into an event.

Dwight’s note: The Husky could make “the printer is jammed” feel like a national emergency.

9. The Poodle (The Polished Operator)

The Poodle always looks composed. Even when everything is collapsing, they speak calmly and write emails that somehow turn catastrophe into “an opportunity to realign priorities”.

They are often client-facing, stakeholder-facing, or management-facing, because they can translate chaos into something that sounds intentional.

Strengths: presentation, diplomacy, calm under pressure.

Risks: occasionally prioritises the narrative over the reality. Can drift into style over substance.

Dwight’s note: The Poodle can make failure sound like strategy. This is both a skill and a threat.

10. The Cocker Spaniel (The Enthusiastic Collaborator)

The Cocker Spaniel is friendly, eager, and always keen to be involved. They reply quickly, volunteer often, and bring a real sense of “we’re in this together”.

Then they get distracted.

Strengths: warmth, collaboration, energy. Brilliant in brainstorms.

Risks: focus is optional. Prone to side quests. Will start five things and finish three.

Dwight’s note: The Cocker Spaniel will ask how you are, mean it sincerely, and then forget what you said because something shiny happened.

11. The Greyhound (The Silent High Performer)

The Greyhound does two hours of extraordinary work and then disappears.

They are not interested in meetings, politics, or “visibility”. They want clear tasks, minimal interference, and the freedom to vanish into quiet.

Strengths: speed, efficiency, results.

Risks: can be hard to locate. Often assumed to be “not engaged” because they are not performing enthusiasm.

Dwight’s note: The Greyhound is a reminder that productivity and busyness are not the same thing.

12. The Shih Tzu (The Middle-Management Aesthete)

The Shih Tzu is immaculate. Their desk is tidy. Their emails are well formatted. Their calendar has “focus blocks” and they will defend them like territory.

They care deeply about process, tone, and looking professional. They also have a stubborn core that refuses to be rushed.

Strengths: polish, consistency, standards. Will stop the team from descending into chaos.

Risks: resists change. Can become the person who blocks a good idea because “that’s not how we do it”.

Dwight’s note: The Shih Tzu will approve your work, but they will also reword your subject line.

A Kennel With KPIs

Every team contains a mix of breeds. This is healthy. Ecosystems require variety.

Too many Border Collies and you get burnout and resentment. Too many Labradors and you get unsustainable goodwill. Too many Jack Russells and you get constant chaos. Too many French Bulldogs and you get vibes with no deliverables.

The secret is balance. A Labrador to keep the peace. A Border Collie to get it done. A German Shepherd to prevent disaster. A Golden to stop everyone from quitting. A Greyhound to deliver quietly. A Dachshund to remember what went wrong.

And, inevitably, a Jack Russell to pick a fight with the printer.

If you don’t know which one you are, that’s normal. Most people think they’re a calm Poodle and are, in practice, a Husky in a headset.

But I will leave you with this comforting truth.

No matter how professional the workplace pretends to be, the office will always be a kennel.

The only question is whether you’re the one barking, the one fetching, or the one quietly chewing the furniture while management calls it “engagement”.

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Dwight Warner

Dwight Warner is the quintessential oddball Brit, with a weirdly American-sounding name, who has a knack for turning the mundane into the extraordinary. Hailing originally from London, now living in the sleepy depths of Lincolnshire but claiming an allegiance to the absurd, Dwight has perfected the art of finding the surreal in real life. Whether it’s a spirited rant about the philosophical implications of queueing or a deep dive into why tea tastes better in a mug older than you, his blogs blur the line between the abstract and the everyday.

With an irreverent wit and a penchant for tangents that somehow come full circle, Dwight Warner doesn’t just write; he performs on the page. His humour is both sharp and delightfully nonsensical, like Monty Python met your nosiest neighbour and they decided to co-write a diary.

Known for being gregarious, Dwight is the life of any (real or metaphorical) party, whether he’s deconstructing the existential crisis of mismatched socks or sharing his inexplicable theories about why pigeons are secretly running the economy.

A larger-than-life personality with a laugh as loud as his opinions, Dwight Warner invites readers to step into a world where everything’s slightly askew—and that’s exactly how he likes it.

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The Office as an Escape Room: A Corporate Horror Story

James Henshaw — Wed, 03 Sep 2025 11:17:41 +0000

Imagine this: You’re in a bland, windowless room that smells faintly of paperclips, instant coffee, and despair. There’s a whiteboard with something cryptic on it, possibly left by a previous inhabitant who gave up and became a barista. The fire exit is blocked by a filing cabinet from 1997. You can’t leave until you’ve completed a series of arbitrary, confusing, and spiritually draining tasks.

You’re not in an escape room. You’re in the office.

Welcome to Corporate Escape

Forget the trendy warehouse with mood lighting and fake cobwebs. This escape room has:

A broken air-con system permanently set to “Arctic Gale” or “Tropical Rot”
A shared calendar that functions more as a work of surrealist fiction
Carol, who will definitely “just pop in” to loudly update you on her cat’s medical issues during every moment of potential productivity

Your objective is unclear. Your motivation is coffee. Your escape route is blocked by an email from Facilities Management titled “Important Update: Please Read Immediately,” which contains no actual information.

Let’s begin.

Puzzle 1: The Broken Printer

You must retrieve a single document before the 10:30 meeting.

Clues:

The printer says “Paper Jam” but there is no paper jam.
The paper tray is mysteriously labelled in Welsh. You aren’t from Wales, and don’t work in Wales.
Someone from IT tells you to “turn it off and on again,” which you’ve already done. Thrice. With increasing levels of malice.

An ink cartridge explodes. You are marked. You consider fire as a solution, but HR has already flagged your browser history.

Puzzle 2: Find the Room That Was Definitely Booked

You booked Room 3B. You have the email confirmation. It’s yours.

But when you arrive, someone else is in there, mid-presentation, confidently claiming they’ve had it since 9. They’ve even brought biscuits. You didn’t bring biscuits.

Now it’s a showdown: A passive-aggressive game of Meeting Room Chicken, made worse by the presence of Denise, who will not pick sides but will loudly sigh and mention “room etiquette” as though you’ve violated the Geneva Convention.

You give up and host your meeting in the corridor next to the bins, where your slides won’t load and someone is reheating fish in the nearby microwave.

Puzzle 3: Locate the Spreadsheet of Doom

The task is simple: find the correct version of the shared spreadsheet.

Your options:

Budget_FINAL.xlsx
Budget_Final_Revised(2).xlsx
Budget_ThisOneUseThisOne_FINAL-v3b_June2025_REAL.xls
Or perhaps… a Google Sheet someone quietly made, which has been kept secret for two years and is inexplicably perfect.

The metadata says it was last updated by someone who left in 2021. The legend speaks of an intern who once understood it. That intern now lives in a cabin and communicates only via semaphore.

There is no logic here. Only despair.

Puzzle 4: Decode the Email Chain

You’ve been CC’d into a 27-email-long chain. You are not sure why. You’re not mentioned in any of them.

Your challenge:

Work out if you’re supposed to be doing something
Work out what “see below ” refers to
Work out if Steve’s use of “Thanks in advance!” is friendly… or a threat

There are contradictory deadlines, four different font sizes, and a JPEG of a chart so pixelated it could be abstract art.

You fail. You reply with “Happy to help!” and accidentally become project lead. Your reward: a recurring meeting on Fridays at 4pm.

Puzzle 5: Survive the ‘Quick Catch-Up’ That Isn’t

You’re stopped en route to the kitchen by someone saying:

“Can I just grab you for two minutes?”

This is a trap.

You will be trapped for 46 minutes discussing a project you’ve never heard of, taking mental notes with no paper, and nodding while internally screaming. You offer suggestions. They are taken as promises. You become accountable for three new deliverables.

You eventually escape by pretending you have a Teams call. Which is true. You scheduled one for this exact reason. With yourself. You discuss lunch. The meeting minutes are private.

Bonus Puzzle: The Mysterious Acronym

The email says you need to “complete your D.A.R.T before Q3.”

Nobody explains what D.A.R.T is. You ask someone. They say, “It’s on SharePoint.”

It is not on SharePoint. What is on SharePoint is a folder called New Folder (3) containing a JPEG of a pie chart and a 2017 risk register.

You Google D.A.R.T and find a form used by the Welsh Forestry Commission. You briefly consider just filling it in and submitting it anyway. You make a note to water the saplings.

Bonus Bonus Puzzle: The Mandatory Training Gauntlet

An email arrives with URGENT in all caps. You must complete the new compliance module titled: “Fire Safety & You: Embers of Awareness.”

You must:

Click through 32 slides of animations involving stick figures escaping a burning toaster
Answer 10 questions, two of which contradict each other
Score at least 80% or face eternal reminders

You complete the module. It resets. You complete it again. It crashes. You email HR. They respond: “Try using Internet Explorer.”

Final Challenge: The Exit Interview

You’ve finally decided to leave. You’ve escaped. Or have you?

You are now summoned to HR for a “constructive feedback session.” You sit across from Dave, who is visibly offended you’ve dared to leave his spreadsheet ecosystem.

He asks, “What could we have done to keep you?”

You reply:

“Given the printer a name, promoted it, and let it manage the department. It’s more responsive than Carol.”

No one laughs. But someone quietly nods.

Conclusion: You Never Really Leave

You thought this was the end. That you could walk into the sunset (or at least a vaguely brighter co-working space) with your dignity intact.

But two weeks later, you receive an email asking for “just a little handover doc.”

You’re back.

The office was never an escape room.

It was the puzzle box from Hellraiser.

And you, my friend, just solved it.

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James Henshaw

James Henshaw is a brooding Geordie export who swapped the industrial grit of Newcastle for the peculiar calm of Lincolnshire—though he’s yet to fully trust the flatness. With a mind as sharp as a stiletto and a penchant for science-tinged musings, James blends the surreal with the everyday, crafting blogs that feel like the lovechild of a physics textbook and a fever dream.

Equally at home dissecting the absurdities of modern life as he is explaining quantum theory with alarming metaphors, James writes with the wit of someone who knows too much and the irreverence of someone who doesn’t care. His posts are infused with a dark humour that dares you to laugh at the strange, the inexplicable, and the occasionally terrifying truths of the universe—whether it’s the unnerving accuracy of Alexa or the existential menace of wasps.

A figure of mystery with a slightly unsettling edge, James is the sort of bloke who’d explain the meaning of life over a pint, but only after a dramatic pause long enough to make you question your own existence. His wit cuts deep, his insights are sharp, and his ability to make the surreal feel strangely plausible keeps readers coming back for more.

The post The Office as an Escape Room: A Corporate Horror Story appeared first on untypicable..

Five Times I Dropped Myself In It

James Henshaw — Tue, 26 Aug 2025 10:00:00 +0000

There’s a certain smug self-satisfaction that comes with being the one who “has ideas” in meetings. A dangerous twinkle in the eye. The sort of misguided optimism that leads one to believe they can make things better.

That was me.

Once.

Now I know better. Now I sit in silence, eyes down, fiddling with a pen like it’s a bomb defusal trigger. Because every time I’ve opened my mouth to suggest something helpful, I’ve ended up project managing it, facilitating it, or—on one tragic occasion—being thanked for “volunteering” when I was quite clearly just thinking out loud.

Here, for the record (and perhaps your own self-preservation), are five “innocent” moments that spiralled into logistical hell.

1. “Wouldn’t it be easier if we had a shared document?”

Original thought:
We’re knee-deep in a reply-all email chain involving seven different people, three versions of the same spreadsheet, and a passive-aggressive attachment named FINAL_THIS_ONE_REALLY_FINAL_July_2025_NEW.xlsx.

I thought I was helping. I thought: There must be a better way.

What happened next:
I created the document. Shared the link. Gave everyone edit access.

Big mistake.

I am now the Document Goblin. Keeper of the Spreadsheet. Warden of Comments. I’m consulted for every tiny formatting decision like I’m the ghost of Clippy come back to suffer.

Someone once tagged me at 11:48pm to say, “Row 19 is acting funny.” I haven’t known peace since.

2. “I don’t mind taking minutes, just this once.”

Original thought:
The Chair forgot their notepad. Everyone else is “terrible at typing” (a suspicious claim in an office full of 70 WPM typists). I had a laptop. I had fingers. I was young and naive.

What happened next:
Two years later, I’m still taking the bloody minutes.

I’ve documented over 48 meetings, 17 of which were about the next meeting. I now type in bullet points even in casual conversation. I no longer experience time—only “action points.”

Colleagues ask for “the minutes” like they’re requesting a sacred scroll. Once, someone disputed an agreement, and I had to cite myself. I am become bureaucracy, destroyer of free time.

3. “We could probably make this into a workshop.”

Original thought:
We were discussing staff burnout. I, ironically burned out myself, said:

“Maybe instead of yet another 26-page policy document, we could do a workshop or something.”

This was meant as a throwaway suggestion. Like saying “we should go for coffee sometime” and then immediately forgetting the other person exists.

What happened next:
Apparently I have a “gift for engagement.” I now run a quarterly interactive learning session called “Burnout and You: Let’s Try Screaming Into a Mug Together.”

It includes icebreakers, “check-in wheels”, and a paper-based feelings volcano. Nobody’s enjoying it, least of all me. At the last session, someone cried during the mindfulness bit. I asked if they were okay. They said, “Not really, but you’re trying so hard.”

I don’t know if that was praise or a cry for help. Possibly both.

4. “I read something about that the other day…”

Original thought:
There was a lull in the meeting. I thought I’d throw in a light factoid to move things along. Harmless, right? Just a fun little “Did you know?”

What happened next:
I was declared subject matter expert on the spot.

“Since you’ve already been doing research on this…” they said, casually offering me leadership of the pilot project. I wasn’t even sure what the topic was. I only read half an article on LinkedIn during a slow spell at Pret.

Now I lead a working group. There’s a Teams channel with my name on it. I once explained a concept using a diagram I made in MS Paint. It’s been circulated to senior management. I now live in fear of being invited to present it at a conference.

5. “I’ve made a rough draft, but it’s nothing special.”

Original thought:
I stayed up late, slightly overcaffeinated, and bashed out a quick draft of a staff handbook rewrite. It wasn’t polished, but it didn’t have Comic Sans, and that already put it ahead of 60% of internal documents.

What happened next:
“This is great!” they said.
“This should be the new template!” they said.

I now unwittingly own the organisation’s tone of voice. People email me asking if their sentence is “on brand.” I’ve had an argument about hyphenation that lasted three weeks. I made a joke once about semicolons being “emotionally unstable commas.” It ended up in the comms strategy.

Honourable Mentions:

“Maybe we should have a survey?” → You now manage SurveyMonkey and the eternal inbox of complaints that is the “anonymous feedback form.”
“We should ask people what they want.” → Now you’re running a consultation. With stakeholders. With minutes.
“That meeting could’ve been an email.” → Congratulations, you now write the email.

Lessons Learned (Possibly):

Never speak in hypotheticals.
Never look directly at the Chair when suggesting anything.
If you must contribute, do so in riddles.

E.g.,

“Perhaps time is a circle and we are all but stewards of its confusion…”
Then nod thoughtfully. Take a sip of tea. They’ll never ask you again.

Conclusion

Some people rise through the ranks through hard work, ambition, and natural leadership.
I’ve managed to get noticed by saying “wouldn’t it be better if…” and then spending six months cleaning up the consequences.

Next time, I’ll just smile, nod, and accidentally mute myself for the rest of the meeting. It’s the only safe option.

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James Henshaw

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The Sociology of Small Talk – Or, Why We All Hate Asking About the Weather

AJ Wright — Tue, 13 May 2025 10:00:00 +0000

Ah, small talk. That peculiar social ritual where we pretend to care about things we definitely don’t care about. Whether it’s weather updates from someone standing right next to you or the obligatory “How was your weekend?” in the office kitchen, small talk feels like society’s default mode – a kind of conversational screensaver that kicks in when real topics crash.

Why Do We Do It?

Sociologists have puzzled over small talk for decades. Some say it’s about social cohesion – a way to signal that we’re non-threatening, approachable, and unlikely to throw a stapler in a meeting. Others argue it’s an instinctive form of social grooming, like chimps picking nits off each other but with fewer bugs and more forced smiles. Robin Dunbar, for instance, proposed that small talk is the modern equivalent of the friendly grooming our primate ancestors used to bond and maintain social alliances – a verbal stand-in for scratching each other’s backs.

But fundamentally, small talk serves as a social buffer. It’s a way to ease into more meaningful interactions without the social equivalent of walking in and shouting, “Let’s discuss our deepest existential fears!” It’s a conversational handshake, a low-stakes ritual that reassures everyone that we’re vaguely pleasant and not likely to shout about politics.

Why the Weather?

Of all the things we could chat about, why does the weather always come up first? One theory is that it’s neutral territory – something that affects everyone but doesn’t stir controversy. Talking about your chaotic love life with Brenda from HR might feel a bit too intimate, but grumbling about drizzle? Perfectly safe.

The weather is also reliably dull, which means it’s unlikely to derail into a heated debate. There’s no risk of someone launching into a passionate defence of drizzle or forming a pro-fog advocacy group. It’s just there – as innocuous as background music in a lift. Emile Durkheim might argue that this shared, predictable topic serves as a form of collective ritual – a small, everyday way of affirming our place in the social group without risking anything too personal.

The Neurodivergent Perspective

Of course, not everyone finds small talk quite so harmless. For some neurodivergent folks, it can feel more like a poorly scripted play where the lines don’t make sense and the plot is painfully predictable. Social cues that come naturally to others can feel forced or even pointless. “Why are we talking about the rain again? We can see the rain. It’s right there.”

But even for the neurotypical, small talk can feel like a chore – a bland, conversational starter pack you’re forced to carry around like emotional pocket lint. We do it because it’s expected, not because it’s especially rewarding.

That said, small talk can also be a blessing for those who are openly neurodivergent. Once people know you’re not wired for polite, empty chat, they often cut straight to the point – skipping the verbal fluff and getting right to the meat of the conversation. It’s a rare upside in a world built on weather updates and the dreaded “How’s it going?”

How to Survive It – For Everyone

Since avoiding small talk entirely is about as feasible as training pigeons to respect personal space, here are a few tricks to make it more tolerable:

Pre-prepared Lines: Have a mental stash of generic replies. “Yeah, typical British weather!” works every time, even if the weather is currently doing something truly weird.
Deflect with Questions: If someone says, “Nice day, isn’t it?” just ask, “Do you think it’ll last?” You’ve successfully shifted the burden of meaningless commentary back onto them.
Embrace Absurdity: Next time someone brings up the rain, try responding with, “Yes, but have you considered how ducks must feel about it?” If they laugh, great. If not, they’ll probably think twice about bringing up precipitation next time.
Acknowledge the Weirdness: Sometimes honesty works. “I never know what to say about the weather. Do you think we’re all just pretending to care?” You might just spark a genuinely interesting chat.

When Small Talk Goes Rogue

Sometimes, though, small talk gets weirdly intense. You might mention it’s windy, and suddenly Dave from accounts is giving you a passionate lecture on climate change. Or you casually note the sun’s out, and before you know it, Pam from reception is explaining her vitamin D deficiency in alarming detail.

The truth is, small talk often functions like a social Rorschach test – revealing far more about the person you’re speaking to than you ever wanted to know. Erving Goffman might describe these moments as “interaction breaches” – those awkward breaks in the social script that reveal the odd quirks lurking beneath our polished social masks.

So, Why Keep Doing It?

Because for all its awkwardness, small talk is like a public service. It keeps us engaged without demanding vulnerability. It’s a reminder that we’re all trying to navigate this bizarre social maze without knocking over too many metaphorical mannequins.

And who knows? Maybe one day, when you’re caught in a drizzle-related chat you can’t escape, someone might just turn around and say, “You know what? I hate small talk too.” And in that fleeting moment of honesty, you’ll realise that even the most pointless conversations can sometimes lead to something genuinely human.

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AJ Wright

AJ Wright is a quiet yet incisive voice navigating the surreal world of sociology, higher education, and modern life through the unique lens of a neurodivergent mind. A tech-savvy PhD student hailing from South Yorkshire but now stationed in the flatlands of Lincolnshire, AJ writes with an irreverence that strips back the layers of academia, social norms, and the absurdities of daily life to reveal the humour lurking beneath.

As an autistic thinker, AJ’s perspective offers readers a rare blend of precision, curiosity, and wit. From dissecting the unspoken rituals of academia—like the silent war over the office thermostat—to exploring the sociology of “neurotypical small talk” and the bizarre hierarchies of campus coffee queues, AJ turns the ordinary into something both profound and hilarious.

AJ’s unassuming nature belies the sharpness of their commentary, which dives deep into the intersections of neurodiversity, tech culture, and the often-overlooked quirks of human behaviour. Whether questioning why university bureaucracy feels designed by Kafka or crafting surreal parodies of academic peer reviews, AJ writes with a balance of quiet intensity and playful absurdity that keeps readers coming back for more.

For those seeking a blog that is equal parts insightful, irreverent, and refreshingly authentic, AJ Wright provides a unique perspective that celebrates neurodiversity while poking fun at the peculiarities of the world we live in. Also a contributor at Thinking Sociologically.

untypicable.co.uk

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Leaving Work on a Friday – The Different Types of Exit

Dwight Warner — Fri, 21 Mar 2025 10:00:00 +0000

It’s Friday afternoon. The work is technically still happening, but let’s not kid ourselves—by this point, productivity is hanging on by a thread. Spreadsheets are open but unedited. Emails are being read but not processed. The most important thing on anyone’s mind is how soon they can leave without it looking too obvious.

The exit strategy is crucial. Time it wrong, and you could get caught in a last-minute meeting. Show your hand too early, and you risk looking too eager to escape (which, of course, you are, but dignity must be maintained). Some will attempt a graceful exit. Others will sprint for the door like they’re escaping a burning building.

So, which one are you?

The Stealth Exit (a.k.a. The Great Escape)

No goodbyes. No fuss. Just a silent, surgical retreat. One moment, they were there—typing furiously, head down, deep in work mode. The next? Vanished. Like a workplace ninja.

The stealth exit is the elite way to leave work on a Friday. The key is to prepare in advance. Bag packed discreetly. Coat casually draped over the chair, ready to grab in one fluid motion. No unnecessary movements. No hesitation.

The biggest risk? Being seen on the way out. A brief encounter with a boss or a needy colleague could spell disaster. The only way to avoid detection is confidence—walk like you have a meeting elsewhere, not like you’re bolting for freedom.

If done correctly, you will be halfway home before anyone even realises you’ve gone.

The Loud and Proud Exit (a.k.a. The Friday Fanatic)

This person doesn’t just leave. They make it everyone’s problem.

At precisely 4:55 PM, they stretch dramatically, make a loud sighing noise, and announce:

“WELL, THAT’S ME DONE!”

It’s less of a statement and more of a performance. They will clap their laptop shut with an unnecessary level of force. They might swing their coat over their shoulder, like a cowboy leaving a saloon. They will definitely add something like:

“Right, I’m off for a pint.”
“Enjoy your weekends, everyone!”
“Don’t work too hard! Haha!”

They want everyone to know they are leaving. And they want you to resent them for it.

But beware—there is one fatal flaw to this method. If the timing is wrong, this can provoke the boss into remembering something they “just need to check” before you go. And then, my friend, you are trapped.

The ‘Pretend to Look Busy’ Exit

A delicate balancing act. This person knows they could leave, but they don’t want to be seen leaving too early. Instead, they do the classic routine:

Clicking their mouse a few times on an already open document.
Staring at the screen with a very serious expression.
Sighing, rubbing their temples, possibly even writing something down (complete nonsense).

This is all theatre. They are waiting for exactly 5:00 PM, at which point they stand up and leave instantly. No goodbyes, no chit-chat, just a clean exit.

They don’t get caught in any last-minute work. But they also don’t raise suspicion by leaving too early. It’s the perfect crime.

The Fake Last-Minute Work Exit

This person wants to look busy, but they also want to leave.

At precisely 4:59 PM, they send one strategic email. Something vague, like:

“Just circling back on this—let’s discuss Monday.”

This creates the illusion that they are deeply engaged in their work, when in reality, their coat is already on. The moment the email sends, they are gone.

The best part? They look productive while making extra work for someone else. A true masterstroke of Friday office politics.

The “One More Thing” Victim

This poor soul almost makes it to the door but is stopped at the last second by:

“Oh, before you go…”

Trapped. Helpless. Their weekend slipping away before their eyes.

This can come in many forms:

A manager with “just a quick question” (never quick).
A colleague who “just needs a hand with something” (definitely not a one-person job).
An email arriving at the exact moment they stood up, forcing them to sit back down and pretend they care.

They will now leave work 30 minutes late while their colleagues are already in the pub. A true Friday tragedy.

The Eternal Socialiser

This person could have left work ages ago, but they got stuck in a chat at the door.

They have been saying goodbye for 45 minutes. Their coat is on. Their bag is packed. They keep inching towards the exit but somehow never quite make it. Every time they try to leave, someone else says something interesting, and the cycle continues.

At this point, they may as well stay and get paid overtime for talking.

The “I Was Supposed to Leave an Hour Ago”

This is the unfortunate soul who meant to leave at 4, but somehow, they’re still here at 6. They didn’t get caught in a meeting. They didn’t have urgent work.

They simply got distracted, lost track of time, and now feel awkward about suddenly standing up and leaving.

Nobody will thank them for staying. Nobody will even notice. And yet, they will spend the whole weekend complaining about it.

However You Leave, Just Leave

No matter how it happens, one thing is certain—you must leave before something ruins your weekend.

The moment the clock hits 5, everything becomes a Monday problem. There is nothing that cannot wait.

So do not hesitate. Do not get trapped. And whatever you do, never, ever, check your emails on a Friday night.

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Dwight Warner

A larger-than-life personality with a laugh as loud as his opinions, Dwight Warner invites readers to step into a world where everything’s slightly askew—and that’s exactly how he likes it.

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A Medieval Peasant’s Guide to 21st-Century Living

Kerry Freeman — Wed, 19 Mar 2025 10:00:00 +0000

Welcome, weary traveller, to the 21st century! You have been plucked from your mud-strewn medieval existence and thrust into a world of strange contraptions, bizarre customs, and an alarming lack of feudal lords demanding grain tithes. The days of ploughing fields and paying homage to the local knight are gone, replaced by something called “emails” and an economic system more confusing than the great schism of 1054.

Fear not! This humble guide shall help you, a medieval peasant, navigate this frightening new world, where goods are exchanged without bartering, serfs willingly enter windowless office buildings, and people are voluntarily on diets despite a clear abundance of food. Let us begin.

The Basics – Understanding This Strange New World

Money – Where Are the Barter Markets?

Once upon a time, if you wanted bread, you gave a man a chicken. A fair deal! Now, you must have something called “money”—which isn’t even made of gold or silver! Worse still, people use tiny glowing cards to pay for things without ever handing over tangible wealth. Suspicious.

Another horror awaits: “inflation.” In the past, a turnip might fetch you a hearty meal. Today, you need something called “£10.50” for a single, unsatisfying sandwich. Where is the justice?

Housing – You Want Me to Pay What for a Hut?

A good medieval lord might have granted you a simple hut in exchange for your hard labour, but in the 21st century, the concept of “affordable housing” is a cruel joke. Rent is astronomical, and buying a home requires selling one’s soul to a bank.

Peasants would expect to pay with grain or livestock. Here, the currency is debt. Worse still, there’s no common room where you can sit by the fire and listen to a bard spin tales of conquest. Instead, you have “Netflix” and “reality TV,” both of which are far more distressing.

Employment – No Fields to Plough? No Problem!

The Concept of a “Job”

In the olden days, your profession was chosen for you—your father was a farmer, so you were a farmer. Simple. But in this world, people must “apply” for jobs by submitting a scroll called a “CV,” listing meaningless achievements in an attempt to impress a corporate overlord.

Many jobs involve sitting at a desk staring at a glowing rectangle, with no tangible evidence that any work has been done. Unlike ploughing a field, where the results are clear, much of modern work is an elaborate act of pretending to be busy.

The Office – A Modern Feudal System

Peasants had lords. Workers have “bosses.” Lords took a percentage of your crops. Bosses take a percentage of your earnings and call it “tax.” The difference? Modern workers must endure something called “team-building exercises”—whereas in the past, you just fought in a battle and moved on with your life.

There are no jesters in an office, but there are “meetings,” which seem to serve the same purpose: a lot of noise, little action, and people leaving more confused than when they arrived.

The Perils of Modern Social Etiquette

Greetings – No One Bows Anymore?

In medieval times, one bowed or curtsied. Simple, elegant, effective. In the 21st century, greetings range from “handshakes” to “awkward hugs” and the dreaded “air kiss,” where people make kissing noises without actual contact. Treasonous behaviour, if you ask me.

If one must greet a person, the safest bet is to simply nod solemnly as if acknowledging their title and lands.

Dating – Arranged Marriages Are No Longer the Norm

Once upon a time, marriages were decided by one’s family, ensuring land, title, and social status. Now, one must “date,” which involves something called “apps” where you judge potential suitors based on their small portrait and a brief written description of their personality.

Courtly love is dead. No sonnets, no dramatic duels for affection. Just messages like “U up?” and “Wanna grab a coffee?” The romance is lacking.

Food & Drink – No Gruel? No Problem!

The Wonders of Takeaway Food

Gone are the days of baking one’s own bread over an open fire. Now, food can be summoned with a few button presses on a glowing rectangle. It arrives at one’s doorstep in a chariot (known as a “moped”) driven by a man wearing strange, garish colours.

A medieval review of modern food:

“A Big Mac? Tastes like witchcraft.”
“Starbucks? Overpriced ale with frothy nonsense.”
“Sushi? Uncooked fish? This seems deeply unsafe.”

Alcohol – The Downside of No Daily Beer Rations

In medieval times, everyone drank ale because water was riddled with disease. Now, there is clean water—yet ale consumption is frowned upon before “5 PM.” Why this arbitrary rule exists remains unclear.

Furthermore, the modern “pub” is no longer simply a place to drink and sing songs about conquest. It is now a battlefield of etiquette, requiring one to buy drinks in “rounds” and pretend to care about sporting events.

The Peasant’s Final Thoughts on the 21st Century

The 21st century is a world of contradictions. It has great advancements, like indoor plumbing and medicine, yet people still voluntarily jog for “exercise” and eat plants called “kale” despite clear evidence of bread existing.

The laws are complex, there is no single king, and people stare at glowing rectangles instead of tending to their fields. However, on the bright side, one can now buy a pre-cooked chicken for under a fiver, which frankly sounds like a much better deal than plucking one yourself.

All in all, the medieval peasant might find modern life bewildering, but at least there’s one universal truth that still applies: the rich get richer, the poor struggle to afford rent, and everyone still complains about taxes.

Perhaps some things never change.

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Kerry Freeman

Born and raised in Sheffield, Kerry Freeman is an unrepentant tea addict, cat enthusiast, and lifelong expert in the art of looking busy while doing the bare minimum. By day, she works as a minion in a government department (no, not one of the cute yellow ones with dungarees). By night, she brings her wicked sense of humour to untypicable.co.uk as an occasional contributor, where she fearlessly tackles life’s nonsense with sharp wit, historical references, and the occasional inappropriate joke.

Kerry has no children (by choice, obviously), but she does have a cat, which is basically the same thing but with more attitude and fewer school runs. When she’s not writing, you’ll probably find her at a historical re-enactment, enthusiastically pretending she’s living in another century—preferably one with fewer emails and better hats.

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The Agonising Art of Forgetting Names: A Survival Guide

AJ Wright — Sat, 08 Feb 2025 10:00:00 +0000

Some people have a superhuman ability to remember names. They meet you once at a networking event, and three years later, they greet you with a warm, “Hey, AJ! How’s your dog, Merlin?” Meanwhile, you’re standing there in a cold sweat, frantically searching the dark corners of your brain for anything—anything—about this person beyond vague familiarity. You know the face… your really do, but the name just won’t come.

For me, names are my personal kryptonite. I can remember the entire backstory of a Breaking Bad character, the exact coffee order of a friend I haven’t seen since 2016, and why that one scene in a random TV show perfectly represents late-stage capitalism—but a human name? Gone. Evaporated. Erased from my brain as quickly as an email about “exciting new workplace policies.”

If you, too, suffer from this affliction, fear not! This article is both a mourning of our useless brains and a strategic survival guide to dodging, deflecting, and (on rare occasions) actually remembering names.

1. The Sudden Realisation of Doom

The worst moment isn’t when you forget someone’s name—it’s when you realise you’ve forgotten their name.

This often happens mid-conversation, right after they greet you enthusiastically by name, with a tone that suggests you should 100% know theirs too. This is panic territory. You now have seconds to react, and your options are:

Fake confidence. (“Heeeyy… you!”)
Stall for time. (“Wow, it’s been ages! What’s new?”)
Create a diversion. (“LOOK! A DISTRACTED PIGEON!”)
Accept your fate. (Smile, nod, pray they bring up their own name.)

Unfortunately, none of these guarantee success. If you’re unlucky, the conversation escalates into an even worse scenario: introductions.

2. The Hell That is Introducing People Without Names

The moment you’re in a group and need to introduce someone whose name you’ve forgotten is a true test of character.

Tactic 1: The Fake-Out Introduction

You introduce the person you do remember and hope the mystery guest fills in their own name.

“Oh, you two should meet! This is Sarah, and… well, I’ll let you introduce yourself!”
This sometimes works, but only if they’re not also a name-forgetter. Otherwise, you end up standing in awkward silence, both waiting for the other person to speak.

Tactic 2: The Vague Gesture

You sort of gesture toward them, hoping they say something first.

“And this is… uh, an absolute legend, by the way.”
Congratulations, you have now created a social situation so awkward it might be studied by anthropologists in the future.

Tactic 3: The Sudden Overuse of “Mate” or “Dude”

If you’re British, “mate” will save you 70% of the time.

“Oh yeah, me and this legend go way back, don’t we, mate?”
Other variations include:

“Champ!” (A terrible choice unless you’re a 1950s boxing coach.)
“Boss!” (If you work in sales, this might actually get you promoted.)
“Big guy/little guy!” (Use with caution unless you want to get punched.)

3. The Worst Case Scenario: Being Called Out

Sometimes, people realise you don’t remember their name and—worst of all—call you out on it.

Them: “You don’t remember my name, do you?”
Me: I would rather fall into a volcano than answer this question honestly.

At this moment, you have two choices:

Admit defeat. (“I am so sorry, my brain is made of soup.”)
Deflect with unnecessary enthusiasm. (“Oh my god, of COURSE I do! It’s… you!”)

Some people will kindly reintroduce themselves. Others will let you suffer for dramatic effect. You deserve this.

4. Strategies for Long-Term Name Avoidance

If you consistently forget names, you need systems in place to avoid total social catastrophe. Here are some elite-level avoidance tactics:

The “Saved by Social Media” Strategy

Before meeting someone, do a stealth check on LinkedIn, Instagram, or Facebook. Scroll until their name lodges itself into your brain. Caution: If you go too deep, you risk accidentally mentioning their holiday from 2014, exposing yourself as a certified stalker.

The “Nickname Everything” Approach

You assign people vague but memorable nicknames in your head:

Beard Guy (self-explanatory).
Talks Too Much Steve (not even sure if he’s a Steve).
Mysterious Hat Woman (the hat is now more important than her name).

The problem? If they change their look, you’re screwed.

The “Let Someone Else Go First” Trick

If you’re in a conversation and someone new joins, pray that introductions happen naturally before you have to say their name. If that doesn’t happen, you are trapped.

“Hey… you! Have you met… my friend here?” (Prays they introduce themselves to each other.)

5. The Tragic Reality: You Actually Can Remember Names, But Only Too Late

The final insult? Your brain does remember their name… just 20 minutes after they’ve left the conversation.

You’ll be walking home, sitting at your desk, or in the shower when suddenly—BOOM!

“Oh my god. It was JASON.”

Too late. Jason is gone. He probably already thinks you hate him. The damage is done.

Embrace the Chaos

At some point, you have to accept that you’re bad with names and lean into it. Own it. Make it part of your brand.

Next time someone says, “Do you remember my name?” just confidently reply:

“Listen, I barely remember my own name some days, so let’s just reintroduce ourselves like it’s the first time. Clean slate.”

They’ll either appreciate the honesty—or back away slowly, assuming you have amnesia.

Either way, problem solved.

Final Thought: A Radical Solution

What if we all just agreed to wear name tags, all the time?

No more awkward moments.
No more name-based shame.
Just a society where everyone is labelled like they’re at a work conference, forever.

Until that glorious day, may your stalling techniques be strong, your fake confidence unshakable, and your vague “mate” usage convincing.

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AJ Wright

untypicable.co.uk

The post The Agonising Art of Forgetting Names: A Survival Guide appeared first on untypicable..

How to Survive Secret Santa in the UK When You’re Neurodiverse (and Fancy Keeping Your Sanity)

AJ Wright — Tue, 12 Nov 2024 19:00:00 +0000

If you’re neurodiverse like me, you probably already know that nothing says “Christmas in Britain” like a workplace Secret Santa. It’s the festive tradition that gives us all an excuse to spend too much on a “small” gift for a colleague who we may or may not have shared more than five words with all year. And if you’re reading this, chances are you’re one of the many people who feels about as comfortable with Secret Santa as a hedgehog in a balloon factory. Fear not—this guide is here to help you navigate the mystery, confusion, and socially obligated merriment of Secret Santa in the UK with your sanity (mostly) intact.

A Traditional British Fiasco: What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

Imagine this: you’re a bit quirky, enjoy routines, and have no idea why Secret Santa involves actual humans exchanging mysterious parcels in awkward settings rather than magical elves appearing with exactly what you need. So, naturally, the annual Secret Santa announcement feels like being lobbed headfirst into a social maze. For neurodiverse folks, this can all be a bit of a pickle, as we’re expected to understand all the (often unwritten) rules of festive gift-giving without a handy instruction manual.

Why Does Everyone Keep Saying It’s “Fun”?

If you’re neurodiverse, the concept of “fun” may differ wildly from your coworkers’! Secret Santa fun doesn’t often include clear instructions, and you’re left wondering why the “fun” is in wrapping oddly shaped trinkets in three different types of tinsel while pretending you have any idea what Sarah from Accounts likes, wants, or will not take as a personal insult. And, just to add a lovely bit of Christmas spice, you probably have a strict budget for this “gift,” but that budget exists solely as a suggestion. At this point, “fun” has left the chat.

Choosing a Gift (Without Going Stark Raving Bonkers)

Right, here’s where things get tricky. You’re given a name. But that’s it. Who is Darren from Marketing? What do they enjoy? Are they a candle person? Do they have an affinity for novelty socks, or are you about to trigger some horrendous flashback involving ill-fitting knitwear? For the neurodiverse, this is like a game show in which you have to guess a stranger’s favourite snack using nothing but vibes.

Some classics may work, like a nice mug or a box of chocolates, but only if they don’t mind finding themselves in the “Generic Gift from Someone Who Doesn’t Care” category. This leads us to perhaps the most significant Secret Santa dilemma: To personalise, or not to personalise?

Reading Between the Lines: The British Art of Gift Hints

A hidden landmine of British Secret Santa is the mysterious “gift hint.” In a neurotypical world, there’s an expectation to drop hints about what you’d like without actually saying it. We British seem to love this baffling form of non-communication, which is particularly unhelpful for anyone who prefers things to be a tad more direct. For example, you might overhear a teammate saying, “I just love a cheeky gin and tonic,” which you might take as “Ah, a gin lover! Good gift idea.” Except, of course, their “cheeky gin” comment was just polite small talk. What they really want is a subscription to a soap-making kit, but they didn’t say that because that would be too obvious.

The Chaos of Unwrapping and Smiling in Public

The moment you’ve waited for (and dreaded) finally arrives: the big unwrapping. Everyone stands around in the break room, holding their mysterious Secret Santa gifts and wearing forced, slightly terrified smiles. In the neurodiverse world, “performative unwrapping” can be a nightmare. Do you smile? Nod enthusiastically? Or are you supposed to grimace because this gift was supposed to be funny?

Worse still, what if the gift isn’t what you expected? Perhaps you unwrapped what appears to be a tiny garden gnome—an inside joke you missed, because, of course, there is no joke to get! You’ve just been handed a gnome because “the gnome spoke to me,” as your gifter says, nodding meaningfully. It’s a form of madness, and yet here we all are, giving it a go year after year.

Navigating Neurotypical Holiday Banter

There’s a lot of festive chit-chat during Secret Santa, most of which involves deeply British expressions like, “I’m terrible at picking presents!” and “Hope you don’t hate it, haha!” For the neurodiverse, this small talk is as essential as mince pies in the office kitchen but twice as hard to swallow. It’s all part of the Great British workplace Christmas ritual: we moan about the “impossibility” of getting gifts, laugh nervously, and do our best not to insult the person holding the mug we picked out last year. Just try your best and remember that, in the end, this banter is largely meaningless.

Tips and Tricks for the Secret Santa Stressed

By now, you might be thinking, “This Secret Santa business isn’t for me.” But don’t worry; you can get through it with a few helpful pointers:

Ask for specifics if they’re available. Pretending you know someone’s taste doesn’t end well—trust me.
Default to something consumable. British office dwellers can’t resist a tin of quality biscuits or a box of decent mince pies. When in doubt, go with treats.
Keep it low-key funny but safe. If you’re up for a gag gift, stick with harmless British humour—novelty tea towels, mugs with silly slogans, or anything shaped like a biscuit. Leave the truly wacky stuff for the brave.
Give yourself permission to enjoy the absurdity. Secret Santa is ridiculous. It’s meant to be silly. It’s okay to roll your eyes and have a bit of a chuckle at how odd it all is!

Embrace The Madness (and Maybe Bring Extra Mince Pies)

Navigating Secret Santa as a neurodiverse person in the UK workplace can be a wild ride, full of baffling hints, questionable humour, and mysterious budget restrictions. But with a bit of patience, a dash of humour, and a healthy dose of self-acceptance, you might just survive—and maybe even have a laugh along the way. So go on, grab your gift (and a mince pie), and remember: everyone else is as confused as you are for oncer. And if all else fails, there’s always next year!

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