THE heat has made me think about the hideousness of modern workplace culture for those unlucky enough to toil in offices.
Particularly, think of all those ghastly meetings that employees are expected to attend.
Sitting in meetings listening to people banging on about sweet FA is hard enough to endure in normal atmospheric conditions.
In this heat it corrodes my soul and it drenches my gusset.

You'd think people would learn to keep their pie-holes shut in this heat - so as to shorten the meetings and allow workers to gather instead around the water fountain and indulge in the usual bitchfest.
But no. People (particularly English middle class people) must have their say publicly, however boring that becomes for the rest of us, as we wilt in the heat.
Certain people who enjoy being in meetings and joining committees and working groups - and there are quite a lot of them about - have a pathological need to have their say in front of others.
And the reasons why some folk are serial committee-joiners are interesting, psychologically. Personally, I think such people are very similar to those who get themselves elected as councillors.
They simply want to fill their daytime and evening hours with as many meetings as possible because they have no real friends, no real social life, and are incapable of developing any.
It hardly matters what these people say in meetings. It could be that they simply want to suck up to the boss and to do so in front of their workmates because they have no concept of jhow very, very low it is to be a brown noser.
It could be that meetings junkies have particular 'isms' or 'ions' to push, such as feminism or social inclusion.
Or it might be that they feign concerns of a 'staff morale', 'pastoral' or 'human resources' nature when really they are just trying to protect their own pathetic status and/or rewards package within the organisation.
Or they might be attempting to build their own little empires. How sad it is to watch that happening.
Whatever the motivation of the Meetings Bore, it seems to me that 'the meeting' in our society has become a monster which causes organisational and communication sclerosis in companies and public authorities (especially local councils, aaarrrghhh!).
Because we live in an age which demands that consultation must be seen to be done , and that decisions have to be made democratically (at least in theory), we have ended up with the tyranny of the meeting and the committee.
And it is doing none of us any good.

YES, to those who are wondering, I have been making my usual visits to Hell's Waiting Room, my local pub in Madford-on-Sea.
And I'm afraid the heat has been going to the heads of quite a few people who venture in there.
There have been several barneys recently. In the case of one particularly spectacular kick-off it was a woman who started it (as usual) and it was she that knocked a table over as she fell.
'Here, watch you don't spill our ale,' I shouted over to her as she went a**** over t**. Well, even in the middle of passionate arguments, you have to get your priorities right.
I'm not going to name the people involved in this incident. But the fellow (a regular reader of this blog, by the way) who attracted such antagonism from the woman did not deserve it.
While it was all kicking-off - harsh words being screamed, fists raised in anger etc - the live music continued.
Popstar Paul was playing at the time and he just continued right on with a broad grin on his face.
He had been singing some Jam and Paul Weller numbers when the trouble started.
And as the ruck reached a crescendo he was just getting in to that crowd-pleaser 'Town Called Malice'.
Quick as a flash, he matched the mood of the pub by changing the song's hook-line to 'Pub Called Malice'.
'Ooooh-ooo yeeaaah' as Paul Weller himself might warble.
We can't allow such rough-neck behaviour in local taverns.
I mean, what if George Clooney should get fed up with Hoylake's trendy wine bars (and who wouldn't?) and come over to the Waiting Room instead and order a pint of John Smith's Smooth and a bag of cheesey-wheatybangs?
Whatever would he think if he was greeted with bittergob ranting and barely contained physical aggression?
Word has spread throughout, er, Greater Wallasey, that the well-known New Brighton pub I happen to use has been immortalised in this blog as Hell's Waiting Room.
People keep coming up to me to say they like the blog and read it regularly.
That's nice of them, though I sometimes suspect they are simply trying to get a 'name check' out of me.
I say 'name check' but, of course, I rarely use real names in this column. I simply make up names for real people who come to my attention.
As for 'name checks', I'm afraid as a general rule I don't give them.
I'll leave that sort of thing to the morons who host shows on local commercial radio.
However, if someone was to bribe me with a pint of cider or glass of red wine, I might be tempted to give 'em a name and put 'em in this, the most talked-about blog EVER!
Pip pip! Keep the faith etc.

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