Monday, July 11, 2005


All day long it’s been “Incoming honeys! Nine o’clock!” and all the blokes in our office simultaneously gawping out of the window behind where Terry sits, the one with last year’s FHM calendar on the windowsill, four heads spinning in unison, Olympic standard synchronised oglers.
Guess what? Summer’s arrived and we’ve become a school of bug-eyed fish in a bowl, twisting and turning as one, easily led, slaves to the forces of nature.

Marks out of ten are awarded in the key categories: body, subdivided into arse, legs and what creepy Keith from accounts describes as having “a great rack”; face; dress sense; and finally, whether you would.
The four points of the compass, the North South East and West of Womankind, neatly objectified and summarised in a series of aggregate scores, charted on the whiteboard for later reflection.

Stella, our eighties style yuppie witch of a team leader, calls out from behind a barricade of desk fans to tell us that we’re a pathetic bunch of sad losers - which nobody attempts to deny - but we’ve all seen her checking out the girls as well, vaguely lustfully, taking notes, measuring herself up against them, on red alert for imminent threats or potential soul-mates-and-who-knows-what after a few bottles of Chateaux Ormskirk on a sultry summer’s evening.
Hot bustling streets below, the cool diesel shade of the multi-story car park, let us act upon our feelings now and deliver us not into emptiness, nobody knows what tomorrow might bring. Emotions running high.

We’re enjoying a heat wave here in Preston, if enjoying is the correct term. Body odour levels are reaching critical mass and there’s still no sign of air conditioning on the horizon. Everybody gone stir crazy.

This morning Bill Surname, Chief Executive Officer, sent out an email imploring everyone to take all possible precautions in the current climate, but as per usual, nobody has a clue whether he means this, or that.

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