Tuesday, February 20, 2007

I Wish We Could Open Our Eyes 

... to see in all directions at the same time.

“Who’s my big man?” coochy-cooed Creepy Keith from Accounts this morning, sitting at the desk opposite mine, between calls to Jeanette from the introductions agency. Either he’s extremely ignorant, or I’m invisible. I tried to look away but he seemed to be coming from everywhere.
“Who’s my big green delicious man?” said the egregious twat.
“I’m going to see if I can’t find you a little friend, and then I’m going to eat the both of you!” He inserted a finger up his other nostril and had a good rummage.

Stella, my eighties style yuppie witch of a team leader, has spun herself into a frenzy of hyperactivity.
She has been working, in her own words, “like a bastard mad hard working bastard mega-bitch,” adding that as long as her friend Becky is away in China, she might as well immerse herself in work, “because what else is there?”
I pondered this for a split-second, before she answered that it’s all about incentives.
She’s made it her goal to take Becky sausage tasting on her return from foreign shores. She wants to prove to her that we can live the high life here in Preston just as well as any bunch of Beijing bankers.

Bill Surname, Chief Executive Officer of Company X, connoisseur of fine things and all round bon viveur, is living proof of what your mother always told you - that if you eat enough sausages, you will eventually turn into one.
On the first Friday of each month he hosts a ‘Sausage and Port’ evening, up at Valium Heights, for the previous month’s highest achievers and their partners.
These are usually his beloved salesmen and women, but occasionally a director or junior manager might break into the rankings, and this is the dream that Stella has set for herself.

“They dress up in black tie and fabulous evening gowns, then stand around in the Great Hall examining Bill Surname’s sausages, like eighteenth century physicians inspecting the King’s turds for signs of madness. It’s all terrifically elegant and then everybody gets twat faced. It’s another life, Tim, and that’s what I promised my friend Becky when I took her to the airport.”

Outside my window, Neil, my former team leader, was standing in the middle of the croquet lawn, tossing his pancakes.

“OMG, you should have seen us in the departure lounge. It was like something out of a film,” she said. “It was so sad! The minute I put her on that plane all I wanted to do was to bring her off again.”

Presently, Rex the security guard came along and shooed Neil away and cleaned up his batter.
Has Spring sprung? There are flowers already on the clematis. Walking to the data centre this afternoon I saw a butterfly. The air feels ever so slightly warmer.
Listen and you’ll hear the tiny sounds of encrusted earth breaking, micro and mini organisms waking from their slumbers, stretching and yawning, putting the kettle on, casting an eye over what’s new in the paper.

This curve is upward. The blackbirds and wagtails know it. The snails and the worms know it.
"Long-tailed tits prefer feathers to build their nests, so tip the contents of an old pillow into a hanging basket. If you haven’t already got one, get yourself a birdbath."
A man wants to beat his chest and gulp down gallons of fresh, clean air, to knock it back like mountain spring water, to feel the warmth of the sun washing over his face, can sense his own sap rising.

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