Wednesday, November 01, 2006

I Got A Gal In Kalamazoo 

“I don’t care what you say,” fumed Creepy Keith from Accounts. “I still hate the little bastards.”

He was sitting at my desk again when I arrived this morning, bellowing into the phone. I coughed to make my presence felt - unsuccessfully - then wandered down to fetch a coffee style drink from the vending machine. He was still there when I got back.
In no particular order, he expressed his hatred for Trick or Treaters, their parents, all American customs that don’t belong in Britain, Gordon Brown, and speed cameras.
“Last year I was scraping the stuff off my windscreen for days,” he said. “Little turd droppers, I hate them.” He glanced around, to check that somebody was listening.
“So anyway, Cholesterol. I’ll meet you at 8:00 at The Flattened Squirrel. Yeah, me too. I’ll be reading the Telegraph. White carnation. My last blind date was a complete waste of fucking space, so you can’t be any worse than she was.”
His eyes twinkled briefly, like a lit fart, as he put down the receiver.

Terry's been grumpy all day, still narked about the sort of cake thing that disappeared from his desk.
We’ve blamed it on Ivan, the industrious cleaner, on account of his being new and terribly thorough.
Since he arrived Stella, my eighties style yuppie witch of a team leader, and Tabs - and for all I know, all the other women in the office - have taken great care to fill their waste baskets with rubbish and crumpled up sheets of blank paper if necessary, just so he’ll linger that little bit longer emptying them again.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit pathetic?” I asked Stella this evening, after the going home bell. “The way the women all swoon around Ivan?”
“Not at all, Tim,” she replied. “We’re just doing our bit to try and have international relations. Stop being so jealous. Oh, and by the way, I know who really took Terry’s sort of cake thing.”
“Is that right?” I said.
“Me and my friend Becky saw you by the lake on Monday as we were leaving.”
“Did you see Bill Surname’s retired army chums as well? Crawling around in the bushes?”
“See them?” she laughed. “We bloody heard them as well.”
“Jesus. They scared the crap out of me with their ‘I Got A Gal In Kalamazoo.’”
“Weather forecast says there’ll be frost tonight,” she said. “I hope they’ll be warm enough, living out in the woods like that. Daft buggers.”
“They’re all of them getting on a bit,” I said.

The car park gradually emptied. Far away, a waxing gibbous moon rose brightly above the Preston skyline. Stars came out. Traffic chugged along the bypass in the fading light. Stella flicked idly through a copy of Cosmo.

“My friend Becky says I can crumble her muffins any time I like,” she said, absent-mindedly.
“I hope they’ll be warm enough, too,” I said, before packing the latest Bryson into my man's bag, switching off and heading for home.

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