The Haught guide to “too much information”

There’s an acronym doing the rounds on the interconnected network of digitised information at the moment. You might be familiar with it.

It’s TMI. It stands for “too much information”.

According to Urban Dictionary… actually, no I just checked and I can’t use any definitions from Urban Dictionary without risking losing the few remaining followers I have left.

TMI is generally used as a term of exasperation or disgust. It’s dispensed by a person burdened by the involuntarily role of listener. The recipient is a teller considered by the listener to have demonstrated the faultiness of an important biological filtration mechanism – the one that connects their brain to their mouth, thus:

“I just did a burp that tasted of a witch’s broth with a human foot in it. In a cauldron.”

“Oh. OK. Wow. TMI.”

The colleague who routinely discharges TMI is the most challenging of workplace obstacles.

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The Haught guide to loud sneezers

"Cover Coughs, Cover Sneezes" - NARA - 514081
The problem of loud sneezers in the office is almost universally shrugged away as a mild annoyance. The idea that epic nasal detonations are on a par with double booked meeting rooms or coffee breath is dangerous conventional wisdom.

In fact, those who get to the 130 decibel mark or above are nothing less than a menace that must be ripped from the coalface, roots and all, like the insidious species of human weed they are.… Read the rest

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The Haught guide to small talk

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I think we can all agree that one of the worst things about work — and life in general — is face-to-face interaction with irksome humans. Yuck — what a sour, non-nourishing cultural staple it is.

The problem is, it’s unavoidable: we have to put up a facade of amiability for the sake of workplace cohesion and must constantly find things to say to people we don’t like but whom we encounter frequently.… Read the rest

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The Haught guide to work farewells

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While in Barcelona, I once hid in a lavatory to avoid dancing.

The Contiki Tour I was on took us to a Flamenco bar and it became clear that, after dinner, each member of the tour would have to get up and dance with a proper Spanish Flamenco master (or mistress). The members of the group with natural rhythm fared OK, but then a bloke who went by the name of The Dazzler got up and made a complete fool of himself, approaching his partner as if she was covered head to toe in bedsores and dancing like he was covered head to toe in the sort of sunburn I thought only existed in the 1980s.

I watched for 90 seconds, realised that despite looking like a malfunctioning robot in a 1960s science fiction show – one whose flailing arms are made from corrugated tubing – he was a far more accomplished dancer than me, and fled to the toilets.

What’s that got to do with work goodbyes?

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