Friday, May 26, 2006

I Predict A Riot 

We stood by the window watching a pair of salesmen rutting in the early morning sunshine, vital and alive in their natural habitat.
It was the usual story - two cars but only one remaining parking spot, a smashed headlamp here, a dented wing there. Then with grim inevitability the shouting and the punching, blood on the tarmac, the crunch of broken glass underfoot, engine’s left overheating, the sound of matters coming to a head.

Rex the security guard was there in a flash with his bucket of sawdust, and Charlotte, Bill Surname’s loyal PA, not far behind with her cotton wool balls and Junior Dettol.
It was all over in minutes, but they must have seen it on the helpdesk, because there was rioting on the first floor all morning, any old excuse.

Poor Charlotte - it’s a difficult time for her, what with the inter-house tennis tournament yet to be organised, and everything still up in the air, unresolved, like a missing page at the end of a thriller - it was the butler, Charlotte! Not for the money, but because of jealousy and neglect! Sound familiar? - a nightmare in her current condition, which as far as we can make out is somewhere between terrified and even more terrified.

“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” said Stella, my eighties style yuppie witch of a team leader, as we returned to our desks.
“That isn’t strictly true, is it?” I replied, but if she heard me, she wasn’t letting on.

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