The Wandering Library of MirMarnia: A series
Part Fifteen: On the Development of Architectural Humour
(Artwork created by Chaiga T. Cheska on Procreate)
———-
Being an account of the time our workplace discovered comedy at my expense
Compiled by Bramwell Corin, who has been reduced to entertainment
———-
Preface
I am writing this document under protest. Mistress Spine insists it must be recorded “for posterity and staff morale.” I suspect she means “because it is funny and she wants evidence.”
What follows is a chronicle of the week during which the Wandering Library discovered that I am, apparently, hilarious. Not intentionally. Not through wit or clever observation. Simply through existing in a manner the building finds amusing.
The Library has developed a sense of humour. Unfortunately, I am the joke.
I would like to state for the record that I have maintained my dignity throughout. Pip claims I have not. Pip is wrong. The fact that I have been provoked into seventeen undignified incidents does not undermine my essential dignity.
The Library disagrees. The Library has been laughing at me for six consecutive days.
—————
Day One: The Initial Incident
The Sneeze (Bramwell’s Account, 10:47 AM)
I was shelving books in the Natural Philosophy section when dust caused me to sneeze. This is not unusual. Libraries contain dust. Humans sneeze. These are facts.
What was unusual was the volume and violence of the sneeze, which I attribute to having suppressed three previous sneezes out of professional decorum. The fourth sneeze would not be suppressed.
I sneezed with such force that I:
Dropped the book I was holding (“The Physics of Sudden Movement”)
Stumbled backwards into a reading chair
Knocked my spectacles askew
Made a sound I can only describe as entirely undignified
The book landed on the floor with a thump. I righted my spectacles. I attempted to recover my composure.
Then the Library laughed.
I have no other word for it. The entire structure shook slightly, windows rattled in what sounded like mirth, and several books in the Humour section fell open simultaneously.
I stared at the walls in disbelief.
“Did the Library just laugh at me?”
Pip appeared from behind a shelf, looking delighted. “Oh, it absolutely did. That was brilliant. Do it again.”
“I will not ‘do it again.’ It was an involuntary physiological response to dust particles.”
A book fell off the shelf beside me: “The Importance of Repetition in Comedy.”
“Oh no,” I said.
Pip’s Gleeful Account (Same incident, 10:52 AM)
Bramwell sneezed so hard he fell into a chair and his glasses went sideways on his face and he made this sound like “HARRUMPH-CHOOO,” which is possibly the funniest noise I have ever heard a person make.
The Library thought it was hilarious. The whole building shook with laughter. Actual laughter. The windows were rattling like they were giggling.
I have never seen the Library respond to something like this before. It has always been dignified about human behaviour. But apparently, Bramwell sneezing violently whilst clutching a book about physics and falling backwards into furniture is the funniest thing the Library has ever witnessed.
Bramwell looked so affronted. Like he had been personally insulted by his own sneeze. That made it funnier.
The Library dropped a book about comedy, and I think that is when Bramwell realised he was in trouble.
Escalation (Bramwell, 2:34 PM)
For the rest of the day, the Library kept arranging small dusty situations. A book would open near me, releasing a puff of dust. A shelf would shift slightly, disturbing settled particles. The ventilation would blow directly at the dustiest corner of whatever room I occupied.
The Library was trying to make me sneeze again.
I refused. I held my breath. I turned away. I employed every sneeze-suppression technique known to library science.
At 2:34 PM, I failed.
The sneeze was even more violent than the first. I dropped three books, tripped over my own feet, and caught myself on a desk whilst making what Pip later described as “a noise like a startled goose being sat on by a minor aristocrat.”
The Library absolutely roared with laughter. Books fell off shelves. Doors swung open and closed. Windows rattled so hard I worried they might crack.
Pip was crying with laughter in the corner.
I stood there, spectacles askew again, dignity in tatters, whilst my workplace found me hilarious.
“This is unprofessional,” I said to the building.
A book landed at my feet: “Professionalism is Overrated: A Study in Joy.”
Day Two: The Library Experiments
Mistress Spine’s Observation Log (Morning)
The Library has discovered it finds Bramwell amusing and is now conducting what appears to be systematic experimentation to determine what else about him is funny.
Current experiments:
Moving Bramwell’s desk in increasingly large increments to see how long before he notices (currently at three feet; he has not noticed)
Placing books in locations that require awkward reaching
Adjusting shelf heights so Bramwell must stretch or stoop in undignified ways
Opening doors just as Bramwell approaches, requiring sudden stops
Bramwell is being tested. The Library is taking notes somehow. This is concerning but also rather entertaining.
I am allowing it to continue for observational purposes.
The Reaching Incident (Pip’s Account, 11:23 AM)
The Library put a book Bramwell needed on the highest possible shelf. Not the second-highest where he could reach with effort. The actual highest shelf, the one that requires a ladder.
Bramwell got the ladder. He climbed up. He reached for the book.
The Library moved the book six inches to the left.
Bramwell had to stretch. He was standing on his toes on the ladder, reaching as far as possible, making this concentrated face like someone attempting complex mathematics.
The Library moved the book another six inches left.
Bramwell stretched further. He looked like a very determined but not particularly athletic ballet dancer.
“Library,” he said through gritted teeth, “this is not amusing.”
The book moved another six inches.
Bramwell had to fully extend his arm, lean dangerously far left, whilst balanced on a ladder that was creaking ominously. He looked absolutely ridiculous.
He got the book. He climbed down very carefully. He adjusted his spectacles with wounded dignity.
Every window in the building was rattling.
I was laughing too. I could not help it. Bramwell gave me a look that could freeze time.
“Not you as well, Pip.”
“Sorry. You just looked like a very serious heron trying to catch a particularly difficult fish.”
A book fell at my feet: “Accurate Observations in Comedy.”
Bramwell’s Defensive Account (Same incident)
The Library is being deliberately obstructive. Moving books while I am reaching for them is dangerous, unprofessional, and not remotely amusing.
Pip’s comparison to a heron was uncalled for. I was employing proper ladder safety whilst retrieving a book that the Library had specifically positioned to create maximum awkwardness.
The fact that I may have looked slightly undignified is irrelevant. I successfully retrieved the book. That is what matters.
The Library disagrees. The Library has moved three more books to the highest shelf. The Library wants an encore.
I am refusing.
The Stubborn Standoff (Pip, 3:00 PM)
Bramwell refused to get the books from the top shelf. He simply worked around them. For three hours.
The Library kept dropping other books near the ladder: titles like “The Importance of Reaching New Heights” and “Stretching: A Practical Guide.”
Bramwell ignored them all with magnificent stubbornness.
Finally, the Library moved Bramwell’s favourite cataloguing manual to the top shelf.
Bramwell stared at it. The Library waited.
“This is blackmail,” Bramwell said.
The manual moved another six inches higher. I did not know shelves could adjust their own height. They can. The Library made the shelf taller.
Bramwell got the ladder.
The Library’s windows were already starting to rattle with anticipatory laughter.
What followed was five minutes of Bramwell attempting to reach a book that kept moving, whilst maintaining dignity, whilst the Library absolutely howled with architectural mirth.
When Bramwell finally got the book and climbed down, he looked at the ceiling and said, very calmly, “I hope you are satisfied.”
Every door in the building opened and closed once, in sequence. I think that was applause.
Day Three: The Walking Incident
Bramwell’s Account (Morning)
The Library has begun moving furniture whilst I am walking. Not dangerously. Just enough to make me adjust my stride mid-step in ways that apparently look hilarious.
A chair shifted six inches into my path. I stepped over it with what I felt was admirable grace.
The Library’s windows rattled.
A footstool appeared suddenly. I sidestepped smoothly.
More rattling.
A small table relocated itself directly into my trajectory. I performed what I considered to be an elegant pivot.
The Library was shaking with laughter. Books were vibrating on their shelves. Pip was watching from a doorway looking delighted.
“Bramwell’s doing an obstacle course!” he called.
I was not doing an obstacle course. I was attempting to walk from the staff room to the reading room whilst my workplace kept moving furniture to make me look foolish.
I made it to the reading room having stepped over four chairs, sidestepped three tables, and navigated around two bookcases that were definitely not there yesterday.
The Library gave me a round of applause through door-opening-and-closing.
I sat down at my desk with as much dignity as I could muster.
The desk immediately moved six inches to the left, taking my chair with it. I nearly fell off.
The Library absolutely howled.
Pip’s Encouraging Commentary
To be fair to Bramwell, he is getting quite good at obstacle avoidance. His footwork is improving. Yesterday he would have tripped over at least two of those chairs.
The Library seems to appreciate his progress, because it keeps making the obstacles more challenging. Today there were bookcases. Tomorrow, who knows. Perhaps small walls.
Bramwell says this is “architectural harassment.” I say it is “workplace wellness through involuntary exercise.”
The Library dropped a book at my feet: “Both Can Be True: A Study in Paradox.”
The Stairs Incident (Bramwell, 2:15 PM)
The Library made the stairs irregular.
I did not notice immediately. I was distracted, carrying books, thinking about cataloguing. I began ascending at my usual pace.
Step one: normal height. Step two: normal height. Step three: three inches taller than expected.
I stumbled. Caught myself. Continued.
Step four: two inches shorter than expected.
I stumbled again. The books I was carrying shifted precariously.
Step five: normal. Step six: extremely tall.
I had to sort of lunge upward. It was undignified. The books teetered.
Step seven: extremely short.
I nearly fell forward. The books fell. I caught them. Barely.
By the time I reached the top, I had stumbled, lurched, lunged, and performed what Pip later called “an interpretive dance about the unpredictability of vertical travel.”
The Library was laughing so hard that Lyria came to the foot of the stairs to check if there was an earthquake.
I stood at the top, breathing heavily, books clutched to my chest, spectacles askew.
“This,” I said to the building, “is unsafe.”
The stairs returned to normal height. Every single book in the Humour section fell off the shelves below in what I can only interpret as the Library laughing so hard it could not hold them anymore.
Day Four: Mistress Spine’s Intervention
Mistress Spine’s Stern Lecture (Morning)
I have had words with the Library about workplace safety. Irregular stairs are dangerous. Moving furniture creates trip hazards. This has gone too far.
The Library’s response was to very carefully move my desk six inches to the left whilst I was sitting at it. Slowly. Gently. Looking me directly in the eye through the window beside my desk.
It was making a point: see? I can be careful. I am not actually endangering anyone. I am simply amusing myself.
I stared at the building. The building stared back.
“Fine,” I said. “But no more irregular stairs. And stop making Bramwell reach for things on moving shelves. He is going to fall eventually.”
A book appeared on my desk: “Compromise: The Art of Everyone Being Slightly Disappointed.”
I am accepting this as agreement.
The New Rules (Bramwell’s Relief, 11:00 AM)
Mistress Spine has negotiated terms.
I am no longer subject to: irregular stairs, moving shelves whilst I am on ladders, or furniture obstacles that are neither reasonable nor visible.
In exchange, I have agreed to: not suppress sneezes in the Library’s presence, accept that furniture will occasionally relocate during my approaches, and tolerate a “reasonable amount” of architectural amusement at my expense.
These terms are humiliating but preferable to being injured.
The Library celebrated the agreement by moving every piece of furniture in the staff room six inches to the left simultaneously. Including the walls.
I am in a room that is now six inches narrower than it was this morning.
Mistress Spine says this is “within the agreed parameters.”
I am reserving comment.
Pip’s Diplomatic Observation
The Library is being more careful but has not stopped finding Bramwell funny. Today it waited until he was drinking tea, then gently moved his desk backwards so he had to lean forward increasingly far to reach his cup.
He looked like he was bowing to his own tea. Very slowly. Very seriously.
The Library’s windows rattled. Bramwell gave up, picked up the cup, and moved closer to the desk.
The desk moved away again. Just six inches. Just enough.
Bramwell and the desk had a sort of slow-motion chase across the staff room that lasted ten minutes and ended with Bramwell sitting on the floor drinking his tea, because at least the floor was not going to move.
The floor immediately moved six inches to the left. Bramwell remained sitting on it, tea in hand, looking defeated but determined.
The Library has learned the joy of gentle, persistent comedy. Bramwell has learned that dignity is negotiable when one’s workplace has developed a sense of humour.
Day Five: Acceptance
Bramwell’s Philosophical Account (Morning)
I have accepted that I am the Library’s source of entertainment. Fighting this only makes it funnier for the building.
Today I sneezed three times. I did not suppress them. The Library rattled with laughter each time.
I walked across the reading room and the Library placed a succession of footstools in my path. I stepped over them with what I hope was grace.
My desk has been in four different locations today. I followed it each time without comment.
I am becoming a comedian against my will, but I appear to be becoming quite good at it.
Pip’s Proud Account
Bramwell has stopped fighting the chaos and it has made everything better.
This morning he approached a door that he knew was going to open just as he reached it; the Library does this every time now. Instead of stopping awkwardly, he simply walked through with perfect timing, like he had orchestrated the whole thing.
The Library seemed surprised. Then pleased. The door closed gently behind him like a bow.
I think Bramwell and the Library are developing a sort of comedy partnership. Bramwell provides the material, the Library provides the staging, and we all get entertainment.
Yesterday Bramwell intentionally approached the tea cupboard in an exaggerated manner because he knew the Library would move it. The Library did. Bramwell followed it across the room doing this slow, deliberate walk, like a very serious person tracking very important tea.
The Library was delighted. I was crying with laughter. Even Mistress Spine smiled.
Bramwell is leaning into it now. And honestly, he is rather brilliant at it.
The Performance (Collective Account, 3:00 PM)
This afternoon, Bramwell needed a book from the top shelf. He got the ladder. He positioned it carefully. He began to climb.
We all watched. The Library waited.
Bramwell reached for the book.
The Library moved it six inches left.
Bramwell, instead of looking annoyed, looked directly at the window nearest him and said, “Really? Just six inches? That is conservative. Are you feeling well?”
The book moved an entire foot to the left.
“Better,” Bramwell said, and stretched for it.
The book moved another foot.
“Ambitious,” Bramwell commented, stretching further.
The book kept moving. Bramwell kept reaching. He was narrating the whole thing like a sporting event.
“And Bramwell extends his reach. The book retreats further. This is a challenging play. Oh, that is quite far now. I am not certain I can. Yes, wait, if I just...”
He got the book.
The Library erupted in applause through doors. We all applauded. Bramwell climbed down, took a small bow, and returned to his desk.
Which had moved six feet to the right during the performance.
Bramwell looked at it, looked at us, shrugged, and walked to his relocated desk with perfect calm.
He has accepted his role. He is good at it now. The Library adores him.
Day Six: The Grand Finale
Thaddeus’s Observation (Written note)
The dynamic between Bramwell and the Library has evolved from “workplace harasses employee” to “building and librarian perform coordinated comedy routines for mutual enjoyment.”
This is the healthiest workplace relationship I have ever witnessed, despite being fundamentally absurd.
The Morning Routine (Pip’s Account, 9:00 AM)
Bramwell has developed a morning routine with the Library:
Wakes. Makes his way through from the residential corridor.
Says “Good morning, Library.”
Walks towards staff room.
Navigates whatever obstacles the Library has arranged (today: seven chairs in ascending size order, a footstool, and a small decorative table that was not there yesterday).
Reaches for tea cupboard.
Follows tea cupboard as it relocates across room.
Makes tea whilst desk slowly migrates.
Sits at desk.
Desk moves six inches left.
Bramwell moves with it without spilling tea.
It is like watching a very polite dance between a librarian and architecture.
The Library seems happier. Bramwell seems resigned but oddly content. We are all entertained.
The Sneeze Compilation (Mistress Spine’s List)
The Library has begun arranging optimal sneezing conditions for Bramwell:
Strategic dust placement
Calculated ventilation direction
Specific book selections (older books release more dust)
Precise timing (when Bramwell is holding multiple things or standing in particularly comedic locations)
Bramwell now sneezes an average of four times per day in increasingly amusing contexts. Today’s highlights:
While reaching for top shelf (grabbed shelf for support, looked like embracing bookcase)
While walking through door (sneezed so hard he stumbled backwards through doorway; door closed in front of him with impeccable timing)
While drinking tea (tea everywhere; Bramwell’s expression was spectacular)
While explaining cataloguing to a visitor (visitor concerned, Bramwell mortified, Library delighted)
The Library keeps all these moments in its memory, I am certain. Somewhere in its structural consciousness, there is a highlight reel of Bramwell’s finest moments.
The Finale Performance (Collective Account, 4:00 PM)
End of day six. Bramwell was shelving books. We were all present, observing what had become our daily entertainment.
The Library arranged the following sequence:
Dust puff near Bramwell
Footstool directly in retreat path
Chair behind footstool
Tea trolley behind chair
Desk moved to peculiar angle
Bramwell felt the sneeze coming. We all saw his face. He knew what was about to happen.
He attempted to reach for a handkerchief whilst stepping backwards to avoid facing the books. He hit the footstool, stumbled, caught himself on the chair, which rolled backwards into the tea trolley, which bumped the desk, which moved another six inches on its own.
The sneeze, when it came, was magnificent. Loud, violent, comprehensive.
Bramwell ended up sitting in the chair, which had rolled back against the desk, holding his handkerchief, spectacles completely sideways, looking absolutely baffled by the sequence of events.
The Library laughed harder than I have ever heard it laugh. Books fell. Doors swung. Windows rattled so hard I worried about breakage.
We all applauded.
Bramwell straightened his spectacles, stood up, took a bow, and said, “Thank you, thank you. I’m here all week. Literally. I work here.”
The Library created a small shelf that evening. On it, a single book: “Bramwell: A Comedy in Six Days.”
The book is empty. The Library is still writing it, apparently. Through lived experience.
Concluding Remarks
The Wandering Library discovered I am funny. Not through any talent of my own, but through a combination of unfortunate sneezing, obstacle navigation, furniture chase sequences, and the general physical comedy that occurs when one attempts to maintain dignity whilst one’s workplace actively undermines it.
I have learned to accept this. Fighting the chaos only makes it more chaotic. Leaning into it makes it tolerable. Almost, I will concede, enjoyable.
The Library is happier, which matters. It was recovering from illness and heartbreak, and has found something restorative in all of this. I am apparently that something. I have made my peace with it.
My dignity remains intact. Pip disagrees. The Library has opinions. But I maintain that one can be dignified whilst being fundamentally ridiculous. These things are not mutually exclusive. I am living proof.
The Library has read this document and responded by moving my desk six inches to the left.
Some things never change.
Final Notes (Added by Mistress Spine)
Staff morale has improved significantly. Bramwell’s accidental comedy routine has created a lighter atmosphere throughout. The Library is recovering its spirits through harmless amusement.
I am allowing this to continue with the following restrictions: no actual injuries, all obstacles must be safely navigable, and Bramwell retains veto power over truly dangerous scenarios.
This is the strangest workplace wellness programme I have ever supervised. It is also working.
Additional Notes (Added by Pip Thimble)
Bramwell is the funniest person who does not mean to be funny that I have ever met. The Library recognised this and has brought genuine joy to everyone through what I can only describe as systematic Bramwell appreciation.
Bramwell says it is “tolerable at best.” But I have seen him smile when the Library moves his desk now. He is enjoying it too, even if he will not say so plainly.
We are all happier. The Library is delighted. The desk continues its migration. The tea remains excellent when one can catch it. Life goes on, six inches to the left.
Compiled during a week of architectural comedy. The Library has developed humour. Bramwell has developed timing. We have all developed an appreciation for the absurd.
————
Author’s Note:
This report arrived with the usual mix of dignity and architectural mischief.
The Library appears to have developed a sense of humour, which is frankly the last thing anyone needed.
If it amused you, do share it with someone who enjoys organised chaos.
-Chaiga T. Cheska