There is a tennis table in the hallway. In the afternoon it is tightly occupied by uncles-enikeys (they, apparently, have little work at this time). Uncles, firstly, loudly, emotionally and mattly comment on the game, secondly, somehow despise personal hygiene and deodorant, and minutes after five intense games the smell of sweat in the hallway is such that the eyes tear. When the boss is in place, he drives them (he smells in the office), when he is not there, he has to cope with his own strength.

My colleague, a tough pre-retirement lady goes out into the hallway and intelligently addresses the players: say, forgive me, and what religion do you adhere to? "What is it?", the uncle asks. “Yes, fucking, I can’t understand why you don’t believe in deodorant!”!" – a member of the Board of Directors. Two days of silence in the corridor, neither the mouth nor the sun. The main thing is that the colleague does not go on vacation soon.