Wednesday, January 31, 2007


En route to the data centre this morning, I overheard a cluster of crocuses shivering in the breeze.

“It’s bloody freezing. I thought you said it was safe to come up.”
“I said no such thing. You’re the one who wanted to get a move on.”
“That’s a lie! You said, and I quote, ‘It’s been the mildest January since 1916...’”
“…so this is my fault? Like everything else is my fault? Failing schools? Your father not loving you? Save it for the pansies.”
The same bickering every year.

Rex the security guard was milking Geraldine, the Company X goat, sending candy floss clouds of moist sweetness trembling across the car park.
The warm smell of colitas rising up through the air.
Geraldine stared at me with her weird rectangular pupils, and I stared back.
Rex claims to have taught her how to whistle, fetch newspapers without leaving slobber, name the planets, identify the leaders of the main British political parties, but I’m not having any of it, much as I’d like to.

Inside, Stella, my eighties style yuppie witch of a team leader, has been planning a surprise mini-break for her friend Becky before she departs for Beijing.

“It’s a Horse Riding and Clubbing Weekend in Newquay.”
“That’s very harsh on the horse, isn’t it?” I said, but I don’t think she caught my drift.

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