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| Another Week - Wednesday & Thurs | |
| By Sir_Nigel | ||||||||||||
| 02 October 2006 | ||||||||||||
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Wednesday Shocking news! Ken Sorsby on the third floor has got the sack for making improper and lascivious advances to that Jackie whatsername who works in his office. So today there's a bit of an odd atmosphere about the place, people are in shock. Mind you, he was a creepy old sod so it shouldn’t be a surprise. But a lot of the things people are saying about him now are a little over the top - analysing every word he ever said, every look, every comment, every sweaty upper lip, every greasy palm and coming to the conclusion that it was obvious all along he was an old perv and not fit to walk God's earth, and its only surprising we didn't spot it sooner. So he's gone, but now I've become very wary of every move I make in the office. After all, there's now a vacancy for an Office Creepy Sod, so what if someone decides I'm it and starts monitoring my every move? I am of course blameless and irreproachable in this respect but I keep imagining that, due to a silly misunderstanding, I could be wrongly accused of some sexual misdemeanour. And if the whole sorry business should come to the attention of the powers that be, what apparently harmless incidents might be dredged up and used against me? For instance, take the other lunchtime when the lift was full but I managed to squeeze myself in anyway to some tutting and shuffling. And isn't it true, my accuser will demand, that you unnecessarily squeezed yourself into a lift already bursting with pert and full-bodied young ladies, dutifully trying to make their way back to their desks after lunch? And all for your own sordid gratification? What!? No. I never. I didn't notice they were full bodied. Or pert. Or anything. Honest. It’s true there wasn't much room to manoeuvre in that lift. And it’s true that I had to force my way in there, I wasn't about to walk up five flipping flights. And its also true I might not have been so keen to get in had it been full of sweaty fat blokes. Especially as some slight bodily contact looked unavoidable. And the accused pressed himself closely against you in this lift you say Miss Golightly. Tell me.... exactly how sullied did you feel by the experience? Please take your time. But the cherry on top of the, as it were, coconut macaroon occurred when Letitia Bergstrom got in at the next floor. She is 6ft tall and built like a 1950s Love Goddess and stood slap bang opposite me. Facing me. Pointing them at me. At eye level. So I averted my eyes and thought about Arsenal and carburettors. Ahem, I said, backing away. That, I suppose, is when some slight brushing up against others, some shall we say, yielding of flesh, may have possibly occurred. And we have witnesses to attest, Mr Perkins, that during this sordid escapade you looked very much as if you were considering thrusting your head into Miss Bergstrom's estimable but nevertheless private and personal bosom and going bubulubblubble. IS THAT NOT TRUE!? What!? NO. I was thinking about the match on Saturday and things and stuff. Although, actually, if I'm brutally honest, the merest ghost of such a thought may have flitted across my imagination like a butterfly that lives for only a fleeting moment before popping its clogs, falling to the floor and then being crushed under the hobnail boot of my self control just to make sure it was dead. But then the doors opened and off she strode so that was the end of that. I watched her rear swaying away before the doors clunked shut and somewhere, probably in the back of my head, a sultry jazz saxophone began to wail. And a button on her blouse was undone too, I noticed, when I was trying not to look. Gave up under the strain probably and who can blame it, but there was no way I was going to point that out in a crowded lift full of pert admin assistants. She really ought to think about making herself respectable before she thrusts her way into a lift, the shameless hussy. Thursday Things have calmed down again today. Just after lunch Cardigan Kate wanders over to my desk, excitedly clutching the little package of photos hot from the developers. Kate is a chirpy-on-the-outside, despairing-on-the-inside, saggy, single, middle-aged doggie-lover. Every day she wears the same comfy, woolly grey cardigan, which has a small flowery hanky permanently stuffed up its sleeve for her endless colds and sniffles. Interestingly, she also keeps a spare comfy, woolly grey cardigan hung over the back of her chair, just in case. Whether that one has its own in-built hanky I don’t know, but I imagine she’ll probably have some contingency plan to transfer the hanky over in a cardigan-related emergency. She’s a good-natured, harmless old thing but at the same time can be slightly irritating. In the absence of any close family or friends her three Scottie dogs are the centre of her life. Occasionally she’ll ask for donations of dog food for some doggie charity or try to raise sponsorship for some doggie feat or flog doggie raffle tickets to help dogs down on their luck. Not while there’s still human suffering in the world, I tell her, just to rub her up the wrong way, although I think she’s grateful to get rubbed any sort of way. “Would you like to see my latest photos?” she asks breathlessly. I stifle a resigned sigh. I’ve already seen enough of her cute doggies cutely curled up in front of her gas fire to last a lifetime. “Is it more doggies?” I wonder. “Yes” she enthuses, almost bursting with wide-eyed excitement. “Then no.” I say bluntly. I regret it immediately, her crumpled disappointment makes me feel cruel and heartless – which, in all honesty, I do try to be now and again just so people don’t think I’m a big softie and take advantage. But I relent. Only kidding Kate, I shout and back she scurries. Dogs, dogs, somebody’s tortoise - I wasn’t listening, horrible wallpaper and more dogs. And then that bloody dodgy old gas fire which she probably hasn’t bothered to get serviced so one day she’ll be found dead of carbon monoxide poisoning, after we’ve all spent a couple of days wondering why she hasn’t turned up for work, and her precious doggies will have eaten her face. Poor old bat. “Better get that gas fire looked at.” I advise her, handing the pictures back. I’ve probably just saved her life but now she thinks I’m the mad one.
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