Tuesday, June 07, 2005

A Heart That’s Full Up Like A Landfill, A Job That Slowly Kills You, Bruises That Won’t Heal 

Back to work. My heart sank.

Outside our office door there was an A3 sized photo of Stella, my boss, on a recent night out. She was wearing a low cut top and had a Bacardi Breezer firmly wedged into her cleavage. She was straddled across a terrified studenty looking lad who was drinking from a straw in the bottle.

“He had to go to casualty later,” said Tabs (receptionist, superstar general admin person, really nice bum) as she rushed by carrying twice her own bodyweight in photocopying.
“She does that every time she goes out. Mad cow.”

I started up my PC and went to put the kettle on. Sodding creepy Keith from accounts grabbed me by the digestives and I had to endure ten minutes of his fetid opinions.
“Ah, Britain and Italy,” he laughed repulsively. “Two countries separated by different languages. Lambrettas, women drivers, tanks with more gears for reverse than forward, the Pope smokes dope, priests, altar boys and blowjobs, jokes about nuns in the shower, blah blah blah, I really am the most boring twat you’ll ever meet, blah blah.”
Then he began singing the tune from the Cornetto advert.
“Just one Cornetto! Give it to me!” - STFU - “Delicious ice cream from Italy!” He could not have looked more pleased with himself. “Luciano Pavarotti.”

I poured boiling water onto his feet, said “The cliché is the handrail for the crippled mind. Spike Milligan,” and left him jitterbugging up and down the kitchenette.

I took a few calls and tried to keep my head low.
Outside my window I could see Neil, my former team leader, loitering near the car park entrance. He was still there when I went out to the sandwich lady at lunchtime. I walked over for a chat, but he was busy making a call.

“Yeah, that’s right man. I got midget gems, jelly beans, wine gums.”
I could hardly hear him above the sound of gangsta rap blasting from his Mondeo. He was wearing a Burberry baseball cap, Adidas tracksuit bottoms and a Skirtlifter T-shirt.
“Dolly mixtures? You fucking shitting me, motherfucker? I got your freakin’ dolly mixtures. Did I ever let you down, man, did I? Meet me by the fucking gates, bitch. Yeah, I’ll be here all day.”

His head was stuck in the iron railings.

It began to rain. I scored a quarter of Uncle Joe’s Mint Balls then went back inside to eat my lunch.
The rain fell harder, on and on through the afternoon, turning the sky black, thick sheets of rain hammering against my window, washing away the dust and the dirt.
Flakes of dried bird shit slid slowly down the glass, leaving smeary yellow trails in their wake, breaking away from the main dollop.
The ice caps are melting.

It’s late in the day. Diana, Head of Marketing (good skin, hair, teeth, lovely smile; reads this blog) sent me an email. It said “We don’t have much time.”

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?

Copyright(c) 2004-2010 by Tim, A Free Man In Preston.
It kind of goes without saying, but this is my blog. I own it.

Slightly daft MP3 disclaimer: All MP3's are posted here for a limited time only. Music is not posted here with the intention to profit or violate copyright. In the unlikely event that you are the creator or copyright owner of a song published on this site and you want it to be removed, let me know.