Ah, the golden sunlit days of autumn. A yellow globe shining weakly in a sharp blue sky. Glistening leaves in brown and gold. Reflected light in puddles. Shadows on the leaf-strewn ground. A low gleam, close to the horizon, making you squint. And in the workplace, rays of natural light streaming in through the office window and brightening the working day.
"Do you mind if I put the blind down?"
Well yes I do mind, actually. I'm not going to tell you that out loud though, because it might appear rude. To be honest I can't see your problem. The sun's not annoying me at all. I quite like the glowing strand across my desk. I don't mind a little glare on my computer screen. I have no problem with a sharp point of light on the edge of my frame of vision - I can subconsciously block it out. But if you want to sit here in the dark, like some kind of semi-conscious hibernating tortoise, go ahead.
"No, go ahead."
Sigh. There you go lowering the artificial screen, cancelling out our daily dose of daylight. Going going gone. Oh dear, and lowering the one in the neighbouring window too. Come on, the sun's only a point of light, so why are you obscuring the entire wall? There's precious little sunshine at this time of year, and you're dooming this corner of the office to fluorescent tubes instead. Casting out the natural in favour of the artificial. And all because you can't cope with a direct beam of light.
Are you like this out of doors too? Do you wear sunglasses in midwinter, just in case your eyes are assaulted by photons? Do you walk around beneath a parasol, nipping from awning to awning, dodging the UV as if it were a deadly laser? I think not. And yet in the office it's OK to darken my environment because shade suits you. It's selfish twilight, that's what it is. My usually sunny demeanour is in shadow.
Now OK, I know the glare might be briefly intrusive. You might be finding it hard to write, or difficult to see your screen, or tough reading that report. But what you always seem to forget is that the sun moves on. It shifts round the sky at a rate of fifteen degrees an hour. It wasn't in your face thirty minutes ago, and it won't be in your face in thirty minutes time. But will you think to put the blind back up again? No, never, not at all. The blind, once down, stays down.
What I really want to ask, in half an hour's time, is "Do you mind if I put the blind back up?" I want back the daylight you've stolen. The sun can't still be shining directly at you, it must have shifted round. And yet I can't prove that, because there's now a blind in the way. I can't suggest raising it without appearing insensitive, inappropriate, unverified. I don't want to seem impolite, so I say nothing. If it was a bit brighter in here, you might see me frown.
Of course, I'll be straight over to that window the minute you walk away. When you go to lunch, I'll have that blind back up again the second you enter the stairwell. If you leave work before me, I'll raise the slats before I depart. And if I'm at my desk before you in the morning, I'll make sure the day begins with a clear unobscured window, you see if I don't. Because it might be a lovely sunny day tomorrow. And one day I may have the guts to stop you stealing it away.
