Tuesday, November 15, 2005

I Need Some Fine Wine And You, You Need To Be Nicer 

Creepy Keith from Accounts has chosen me, of all people, to moan to about his continuing run of bad luck “on the copping off front.”
He hasn’t had a shag in years and believes its because he suffers from Nice Guy Syndrome.

“Surely not?” I said, trying not to sound incredulous or unsympathetic. “You?”
“’Fraid so, mate. Happens to the best of us,” he said, shaking his head and tutting. Tiny flecks of spit sprayed out from the gaps between his teeth. He looked like the human equivalent of a garden sprinkler. I nudged my chair back a bit.
“Happens over and over. I take some bird out to Pizza Hut, show her a good time, everything’s going great. Walk her back to her place. Then just when I think we’re moving towards coffee, it happens again.”

He fell silent, waiting for me to ask “What happens again?”
I resisted for, I dunno, about five minutes, but when it became obvious that he wasn’t going to leave me alone, and everything on my desk was fast becoming covered in an oily film of saliva, I looked up from my screen and said, “Oh, I’m sorry Keith. What did you say happens again?”

“She says, ‘Thanks Keith, it’s been an unusual evening.’” He did the voice and the actions and everything. “‘And I think you’re a really nice guy and that, but I’ve got to go and wash my hair now.’”

Stella, my eighties style yuppie witch of a team leader, wandered idly into the room and through to her office.
“Morning Tim, morning Keith,” she said. She was reading her horoscope and sucking on a panettino.

“I’ve been shunted into the friend zone,” he continued, nodding in Stella’s direction.
“You mean, with… ?” and I nodded in Stella’s direction as well. For a moment we were in synch with each other, a pair of sagely nodding dogs sat in the rear window of the Vauxhall Nova of life.
“Blimey,” I said.
“No hope of escape once they put you in the friend zone,” he said.
“It must be very, erm, frustrating,” I said.
“I’ll say,” he said. “It’s driving me…” and his words petered out. I made a half hearted attempt at making eye contact, but it was never really on the cards.
“Yes,” I said, and threw all my paperwork into the recycling bin.

We filled in the gaps chatting about Michael Owen for a bit before he eventually shuffled out of the room and I set about printing fresh copies.

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.