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Tuesday, January 09, 2007

True Love Ways 

Say what you like about Creepy Keith from Accounts, but the man has no idea of the notion of the concept of abandoned hope. He hasn’t a clue. It’s almost inspiring.

He was sitting at my desk when I arrived this morning, deep in conversation with Jeanette from the Introductions Agency.
“She can butter my toast any morning, Jeanette,” he slathered, one hand down the front of his trousers and doodling with the other. “I’d marry her tomorrow, I really would.”
He was doing it with my gel grip pen. Mine!

Stella, my eighties style yuppie witch of a team leader, walked by with a muffin and a mild limp. She’s been off crutches for a while but still gets sore now and then.
“But Keith,” she said, “you’re so desperate you’d marry a horse. If you could find one that’d let you.”
“I think she’s beautiful. I’m completely smitten.”

There was dust all over my desk, lumps of plaster and polystyrene and general mess. It looked like the big people had been dancing up in the ceiling again, and I’m not talking the foxtrot.

I passed some time gazing out of the window, watching Rex the security guard milking Geraldine the company goat, then swept up the debris. It was a metal bucket, good and heavy, so as not to blow over in the wind.

As it happens, Jeanette doesn’t have Keira “Look Mum! No breasts!” Knightley on her books, so Keith is making do with a dinner date with a girl called Karen from Keighley.

“Near as damn it,” I said, trying to look on the bright side, “anagrammatically speaking,” but he was busy googling to see if the Little Chef near Skipton had escaped closure and ignored me.

When I returned from washing my hands he’d gone, taking my pen with him. I thought it best not to bother and fetched a fresh one from the cupboard instead.
No news on the Little Chef.

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