In a past future, an egg-headed man with wispy hair, chunky glasses and a funereal suit glides towards his sparse Perspex desk. “The perfect office,” whispers his inner monologue as voice-over. “No in-tray, no out-tray, no phone, no filing cabinets, no clutter. Quiet, cool, very efficient. I need never get out of this chair,” he purrs before going on a sexist rant about secretaries. “No distractions, just me and the work, alone.” His trusty android, BJ39, armed with a clunky monitor, scoots over. The man picks up a glass desk sculpture, revolving it slowly. “Just me and my executive prism,” he says. He gazes into its refractory void as if it were a crystal ball. “It relaxes me, it relaxes me, it relaxes me…”
So goes a strangely psychedelic “Office…