Pete's cupboard

A pox on the paperless office

A long, long time ago, in the Regulatory Department of a large company, I worked for a Welshman called Pete. Pete was a sanguine character, sometimes sarcastic, always calm. In fact, he was so laid back I would sometimes find him asleep at his desk. He was fond of the now non-fashionable business epithets, like: "You're not paid to think, you're paid to work", "Of course I want it today - if I wanted it tomorrow, I would have asked for it tomorrow", and "It's better to be pissed off than pissed on," but you were never offended. Pete said he was a firm believer in mushroom management (keep 'em in the dark and throw shit on 'em), too, but I only half believed him. Working for him was difficult, because there was little indication of what he wanted me to do, but I forgave him that because he was magic to watch with a cricket bat. But, most crucially, and with amazing though unwitting far-sightedness, Pete was a staunch believer in the paperless office, long before the concept had been thought up by some clever-dick management consultant.

We didn't have desktop computers then. PC didn't mean personal computer - it meant police constable. The only computer we had was 70 miles away and you weren't even allowed to look at it, let alone dare to ask it a question. It weighed over a ton, was guarded by an army of programmers, data processors and systems analysts, and produced an unbelievable amount of paper once a month, which another army pored over, checked and rechecked until the following month's emission was due. And that was just the company's accounting. Everything else started and finished on paper, mounds of the stuff which arrived in every internal and external post, usually a copy of something no one wanted but couldn't bear to part with the original. If it was an original, we would take several copies which would join the paper chase that was business in those days. Most of us spent half our lives at the photocopier; none of us questioned it.

Except Pete. He believed in the paperless office. He photocopied nothing. Anything that entered his office, whether for information or for action, went into a large metal cupboard in the corner. The cupboard had no shelves, and papers would be stacked, as they arrived, from the bottom up. If someone rang up about something, or an irate filing clerk came in for a lost dossier, Pete would consult the cupboard, or the visitors might be allowed to look for themselves, which was usually easier. Pete's cupboard became the first place - after the central registry - where you looked for anything missing. Occasionally (and misguidedly), I would (but only because I liked Pete) offer to clear out the cupboard for him. He would smile enigmatically: "Help yourself." There wasn't a lot of point. It soon filled up again. I often wondered why no one missed most of it. Some of it was in there for years without ever being missed. It probably still is.

I say misguidedly because, in retrospect, Pete's cupboard was an island of sanity in that mad world of the chemicals industry in the 70s and 80s, where all the latest fashions in business management were taken on board without any thought to compatibility or feasibility. This was a company where you were expected to have a pre-meeting before you actually had a meeting, and where telephone calls were automatically transferred to someone else if not answered within a certain number of rings. I believe there are people who called me when I worked there, holding on even now.

But Pete's cupboard saved the company thousands in photocopying costs and wasted time. His system meant the only work done was that which really did have to be done. It ensured a steady flow of visitors that firstly kept him awake most of the time and secondly made him seem the busiest person in the department. I'm convinced it got him at least one promotion. I believe he did the company a great service and helped make it what it is today, one of the most successful companies in its field in the world. I don't know if Pete still works there but, for their sake, I hope so.

All of which puts me in mind of the modern PC or desktop computer. Cupboard manufacturers may have taken a knock, but has anything else changed? My computer is like Pete's cupboard. It looks and sounds different, though. It has lots of wires, several peripherals with lots of wires of their own, makes an irritating noise all day, strains my neck and my eyesight, cost me a lot of money, and uses electricity. Otherwise it's just the same. It contains thousands of pages of information, generated by me or by others, most of which will never see the light of day again. Half-finished articles, snippets of information arriving by modem, fax and post. Its only advantage over Pete's cupboard is that it's marginally quicker to put things away. It's certainly no quicker to find them and, more to the point, most of them will never need to be found.

Yet it's still not a paperless office, and in fact no one has convinced me that such a thing is possible. I can't throw original documents away, faxes have to be re-copied on to non-light-sensitive paper, and anything which is bound, books, reports and so on, has to be kept intact. If I want to transfer anything to my PC from my trusty but ancient Mac, I have to print it out of one and scan it into the other. I am a slave to the modern system, yet I am still surrounded by paper. It is neither one thing nor the other. Paperless office? Don't make me laugh.

I have to remind myself sometimes of the reason I went over to an electronic system of working in the first place. It was to speed up the editing process, which it has, and reduce costs and paper, which it has not. But nothing really has changed, except I'm worse off financially.

If so little has changed for the better, then, I have to agree with Robert Townsend who warned in "Up the Organisation" that one possible outcome of computerisation is to do no more than speed up the mess. I would even add to that: cupboards are more environmentally friendly, reduce imports of far-eastern goods, are cheaper, nicer to look at and give you a better social life. With the incredible amount of trouble and aggravation I've had with my new computer ever since I bought it in February (but that's another story), I wish I hadn't been so critical of Pete at the time and had followed his wise example. If you're reading this now, Pete - sorry.

I'm tempted to go out now and buy a considerable quantity of paper and several ink cartridges, print out everything in my computer and advertise the equipment for sale. With the proceeds, I could take a short trekking holiday in the Andes, and when I came back I could buy a very large cupboard. At least when it was full, I could have a bloody good bonfire.

© Tony Holkham 1998

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