I was some sort of reverse fucked up easter bunny. A colleague and I were hiding rotten eggs a week or so after easter sunday, for a bunch of mainly muslim kids not to find. The library decided to hold a competition to decorate easter eggs, something we’d not done before. It was also something we didn’t plan to much for, other than buy a couple of dozen polystyrene eggs and print up some posters and flyers. What didn’t occur to us was to issue instructions in egg decoration. Or more specifically real egg decoration, as in not plastic. Some of the smarter among you will have realised what happens next. Some of you won’t. Some of you, like me, won’t have decorated eggs before and, also like me, wouldn’t have bothered to or known how to blow the contents of an egg out of its’ shell.
I was chased around the library, looking for an egg sized, suitably odour secure, container by my fellow employee. An employee with a slightly manic look about their eyes, saying over and over again “Oh God! Smell it. Here…smell, smell it. It’s…oh God, here”. In fetid desperation, the sort of desperation borne of a stench so bad it threatened to permeate flesh and bone, we went outside. As we were finally depositing said stinky egg bomb in the middle of a local unsuspecting shrub. I asked if this activity would be included in the branch plan. I wondered which of the SCL’s four universal offers – health, reading, information or digital, would be best suited to describing this mornings activity? More than that I said, which of the criteria, essential to my job description, would acting like some sort of reverse fucked up, you know the rest.
My point: please don’t try, too hard, to categorise my job. I realise you need to know my name and where I live and my phone number and shit. But if I need to demonstrate my worth, please can it be through an ability to react to the unpredictable carcasses of events thrown my way at a normal day on the job.