Tuesday, August 10, 2004
Smooth Operator
Stella says she’s going to re-engineer our core processes. I’m not sure how she’ll manage to find a window if these past two days are anything to go by. She’s divided her time more or less equally between chatting to her mates on the phone, flicking through the pages of Cosmopolitan and flirting with the plasterer. Sometimes she did all three at once.
She and Smudge got off to a bad start on Monday. You know how it is. You’re all dressed up for your first day in a new job only to find a big sweaty man in your office, stripped to the waist and listening to Chris bloody Moyles. “It could be worse,” I suggested, “it could’ve actually been Chris Moyles.” I don’t think she heard me. By lunchtime he’d managed to smooth things over, as it were, and they left for the pub together at four o’clock.
She’s spent all of today swapping text messages with him, and then reading them out to her friend Tabatha over the phone. He certainly sounds like a very athletic young man.
On the whiteboard in her office she has drawn a huge migraine of boxes, squiggly arrows, intersecting balloons and a number of buzzword infested statements on the subject of being “goal orientated”. It wouldn’t look out of place in the half time dressing room at Deepdale.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been interpolated before,” I said, “but I’ll try anything once.”
Unfortunately, she’s got wind of Neil’s leaving bash on Thursday and has invited herself and Tabatha along. They like nothing better than to go out and get shit faced, apparently. The good news is that she thinks we’re all meeting in Liverpool.
She and Smudge got off to a bad start on Monday. You know how it is. You’re all dressed up for your first day in a new job only to find a big sweaty man in your office, stripped to the waist and listening to Chris bloody Moyles. “It could be worse,” I suggested, “it could’ve actually been Chris Moyles.” I don’t think she heard me. By lunchtime he’d managed to smooth things over, as it were, and they left for the pub together at four o’clock.
She’s spent all of today swapping text messages with him, and then reading them out to her friend Tabatha over the phone. He certainly sounds like a very athletic young man.
On the whiteboard in her office she has drawn a huge migraine of boxes, squiggly arrows, intersecting balloons and a number of buzzword infested statements on the subject of being “goal orientated”. It wouldn’t look out of place in the half time dressing room at Deepdale.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been interpolated before,” I said, “but I’ll try anything once.”
Unfortunately, she’s got wind of Neil’s leaving bash on Thursday and has invited herself and Tabatha along. They like nothing better than to go out and get shit faced, apparently. The good news is that she thinks we’re all meeting in Liverpool.
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