Wednesday, May 10, 2006


Creepy Keith from Accounts is a considerate and imaginative lover. He has the stamina of an elite athlete and is, in his own words, “affectionate as fuck.”

This is what he claims anyway. Frankly, I’m more than happy to take his word for it.
We just wish he’d use his own office for calling Jeanette at the introductions agency. He was down here again this lunchtime, sat opposite me while I was trying to concentrate on my sudoku, moaning to her about his plight. It took all the pleasure out of my cheese again sandwiches, and there wasn’t a lot there to begin with.

“Munters, Jeanette, they’re all munters. I don’t understand it. You must have someone decent on your books? Apart from me?”

Stella, my eighties style yuppie witch of a team leader, could be heard laughing in her office. She was clearly enjoying this.

“Michaela the Mollusc? From Morecambe Sands? I’m not kidding you, Jeannette, that girl had limpets. No, I’m not being picky. When she took off her helmet there were barnacles on her head, I swear. If I’d wanted an evening of gaseous exchange I’d have stopped in for a curry.”

When he finally hung up, he buried his head in his hands, despondent, sunk like PNE. Stella emerged from her office.

“Oh give me another chance, Stella. Please,” he begged. “I’m just what you’re looking for.”
“Nope,” she said.
“I’m desperate. Please.”
“No can do.”
“Well at least give me a smile.”
“No time, Keith. I’m off to give Becky one down by the docks,” and with that she was gone.

I pretended to be doing something with a spreadsheet - what are you supposed to do with spreadsheets, anyway? What exactly are they for? - and eventually he left us alone. Terry fumbled for his dictionary and notepad.
“What was that?” he asked, flicking through the pages. “Did he say limpet or nymphet?”

I spluttered half chewed Hovis across my puzzle and printed out a fresh one.

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