Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Here Comes The Sun
“I wish people would use the bins provided,” complained Rex the security guard this morning as he picked condoms out of the hawthorn bushes.
It was a proper old-fashioned first day of Spring, raw and bleak and wintry. His giant callused hands glowed loganberry.
“Well don’t look at me,” I replied, a little too brusquely.
A cluster of shivering daffodils bickered in the icy wind -
“You just couldn’t wait any longer, could you?”
“Oh shut up. You wanted to come out in January, remember?”
- and the wallflower sun waved helplessly through a break in the clouds.
“Maybe you could ask Charlotte, Bill Surname’s loyal PA, to put out another email,” I said.
“Last one didn’t make any difference. If anything, it made matters worse.”
“True. Her phrasing wasn’t all it might have been.”
Poor Charlotte - it’s a difficult time for her, what with Bill Surname CEO being away skiing, and her left to hold the fort at Valium Heights, his sprawling country pile.
Head on a bearing just north of north-east away from the main data centre entrance, around or across the croquet lawn - your choice but don’t come hopping to me if you spend the rest of the month tweezing buckshot out of your backside - past the Sunken Heart Rose Gardens and the Menopause Memorial Wishing Well, beyond the potting shed where the more exuberant helpdesk staff go to have it off during their lunch hours and the old hen houses which haven’t seen action since foot and mouth, then it’s a ten minute walk through the beech wood - twenty if you don’t like rope bridges - and there you are at Valium Heights, ancestral home of generations of Surnames, so it’s said, since George was on the throne, the mad one.
The horses she doesn’t mind, but feeding the hounds twice daily requires a lightness of touch and ‘walking the plank’ adroitness completely beyond a woman of Charlotte’s elephantine bulk ever since the fox hunting ban.
She looks defeated and drawn as she tells you that life hasn’t been the same since Death arrived, and for once you feel she may have a point.
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It was a proper old-fashioned first day of Spring, raw and bleak and wintry. His giant callused hands glowed loganberry.
“Well don’t look at me,” I replied, a little too brusquely.
A cluster of shivering daffodils bickered in the icy wind -
“You just couldn’t wait any longer, could you?”
“Oh shut up. You wanted to come out in January, remember?”
- and the wallflower sun waved helplessly through a break in the clouds.
“Maybe you could ask Charlotte, Bill Surname’s loyal PA, to put out another email,” I said.
“Last one didn’t make any difference. If anything, it made matters worse.”
“True. Her phrasing wasn’t all it might have been.”
Poor Charlotte - it’s a difficult time for her, what with Bill Surname CEO being away skiing, and her left to hold the fort at Valium Heights, his sprawling country pile.
Head on a bearing just north of north-east away from the main data centre entrance, around or across the croquet lawn - your choice but don’t come hopping to me if you spend the rest of the month tweezing buckshot out of your backside - past the Sunken Heart Rose Gardens and the Menopause Memorial Wishing Well, beyond the potting shed where the more exuberant helpdesk staff go to have it off during their lunch hours and the old hen houses which haven’t seen action since foot and mouth, then it’s a ten minute walk through the beech wood - twenty if you don’t like rope bridges - and there you are at Valium Heights, ancestral home of generations of Surnames, so it’s said, since George was on the throne, the mad one.
The horses she doesn’t mind, but feeding the hounds twice daily requires a lightness of touch and ‘walking the plank’ adroitness completely beyond a woman of Charlotte’s elephantine bulk ever since the fox hunting ban.
She looks defeated and drawn as she tells you that life hasn’t been the same since Death arrived, and for once you feel she may have a point.
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