Tuesday, August 18, 2015

Just Because I Like Making Up Names

I stepped out onto my footpath into the sun at 7.45, Monday morning. I laughed to myself, as I thought about it, how (my old boss) Beck and I used to dash into the happy law firm at 9.15, 9.30, to the point where the minions, the rat-faced, clock watchers (the equivalent of the girls in the typing pool) complained and our boss talked to us about making our late arrival less obvious.

“I know they work 9 to 5pm on the dot, and you guys work late, but they are on my back about it. Small minds, I know, but what can I do?” 


Are the good old days , even back then those who complained got their way and those who didn’t had to put up wit the nonsense. It is a corporate world truth.

I was often late at the miserable law firm, and Beck was never on time. Never. Nobody is drawn to hell though, lets face it. 
Still, it is a bench mark for what not to do.


Who’d have thought, I’d be slipping into the office now at 7.45, 8am easy as pie. I’d never thought I would. Jesus! I have better things to do with my mornings.
There was no Mrs Washerbottle hair sitting dutifully at the far desk,   contrasted against the morning sun at the window, as regular as clockwork, on which one could depend. Kirin is always in at 7am. Always first in. The truth is that she lives in a distant suburb and she leaves early to beat the traffic.


But, I knew that, already. Kirin text me last night to say she’d raised the white flag, she's gone off on stress leave, the doctor had given her a week. 

Mrs Washerbottle hair, it makes me laugh, Kirin pulls her hair up on top of her head in a ponytail. Of course, the true Mrs Washerbottle has it pulled up tightly into a no nonsense bun, (full apron, sleeves rolled up, sensible shoes) pulling her face shiny and tight, but close enough. I hate it when Kirin has it down, long and cascading, she reminds me of Marge Simpson after a romantic interlude with Homer, all she needs to complete the picture is a negligee and a cigarette. It always makes me shiver.

Fatty Snoop Cake Lady wasn’t ever early into the office. She said as much herself. Not an early riser, she said.
 (Well, lugging that arse out from between the sheets. Oops, did I say that out loud?) In the early days she made excuses that her security pass hadn’t been working and she had to wait until after 8.30am so she could enter the building without the need for a pass. But, since she got her pass problem rectified, she still wasn’t making it into the office until after 8.30am. I’m not really sure why she felt the need for the implausible excuses, as, truthfully, nobody really cares. It is a life truth, you might think you are special, but in all reality, hardly anybody really cares.

Tick tick, the clock moved to 8.30am. I wondered if Fatty Cake’s new pass had stopped working. Tick tick, the clock moved to 8.45am. I wondered if she’d gone out for a big breakfast. Tick, tick, the clock moved to 9am. I stopped wondering and simply relaxed and enjoyed the solitude. Tick, tick, the clock moved pass 9.15am. I held my breath and stopped wondering, maybe thinking her name, like saying vampires names out loud, would make her appear.

Then big boss little Paddington Bear, was beside me and he’s telling me that Fatty Snoop Cake Lady has come down with the flu and won’t be in either.


So Fatty Gerlatty, aka Fatty Snoop Cake Lady, boom, boom, boom-boom, boom, boom-boom, boom, boom and Slapper Gerlatter, aka Kirin, “if he keeps treating me like this, I'll loose my shit,” were both away. The 100K girls had jumped ship. (Hold your nose. It is only the initial jump, which is scary. Dive right in, the water is fine)

Fatty Gerlatty came with a warning, as we know, from Guru Greta, not reliable, prone to absences and submitting workcover claims, I figure it is all that cream sponge eating that must wear her out. Slapper Gerlatter has been struggling under the intense scrutiny for weeks. “He is out to get me by whatever means they can.” They have been in battle for 4 weeks now and, clearly, it has taken its toll. Fatty Gerlatty has been bought into terminate Slapper Gerlatter, Fatty Gerlatty knows that, Slapper Gerlatter knows that, I know that, we all know that. However we pretend it isn’t so. There are feigned attempts at niceties, there is a sisterly show of cooperation, but underneath the concocted camaraderie, I can feel the contempt, I can feel the anger simpering, we all know it is war.

Well, apparently, the fatigue of battle got to both of them and today they have both retreated to their corners saying they won’t be in. Slapper Gerlatter has been to the doctor where, no doubt, she cried her girlish heart out, “It is no good, I can’t cope any longer,” and he has given her the week off. So, I suspect, she means business. Fatty Snoop Cake Lady, if Guru Greta is to be believed, is just di rigueur. Perhaps it is her ankles. boom, boom, boom-boom, boom, boom-boom, boom, boom. I’m sure I can hear them screaming with every step. The Silent Scream, I see the cartilage between those major bone structures now resembling something torn. I see an image of Munch’s painting, The Scream, above each of her delicate little feet. This office work business is not for the faint hearted, let me assure you. Let’s not to forget that Slapper Gerlatters best buddy at work is Obese Olwyn the workcover chick – yes, I see the irony too – who I am hoping has imparted a trick, or two, to Slapper Gerlatter who, of course, my allegiances lie with, naturally. We have history, after all. (Spoken in hushed tones behind the back of my hand, Pooh Pooh Waterford aka Mark has taught me to despise the, shall we say, large boned) I’m always one for the under dog, unless, of course, it is the religious right in a marriage equality debate and then I am all for stoning the religious bigots, chopping off their hands, ripping out thier tongues, and shoving all of the severed body parts into their anal cavity one by one, but I digress.

So, the behemoths, of office politics, set upon each other by our big boss, little Paddington Bear, the old war horse and the heavy weight, unusually for the former and par for the course for the latter retreated to their corners to lick their wounds, on a day when I was considering laying an ultimatum at Slapper Gerlatter’s feet about my treatment at the hands of Fatty Gerlattey re the Happy accusations, but it wasn’t to be, Slapper Gerlatter rather fucked that up for me. I'd been considering it all week end and kept coming to the conclusion, Fatty Cake aka Fatty Gerlattey reported to Paddington bear, that I'd been rude to Happy without ever consulting Happy about how she felt and Happy has never thought that I have been rude to her. It isn't good enough, I am not happy about it, (that's because Happy is happy about it, boom boom) but when it came to the crunch there was no one to tell. I was all chest puffed up about it and nobody was there to witness the occurrence. It rather deflated my resolve and I can see nothing but the funny side of it. Let's face it, if you can't laugh, you are going to have a stroke - and not the good type - and drop down dead and nobody in the corporate world will give more of a stuff than the inconvenience of having to step over your cold, stiff body 


“Oh,” wrinkled up nose, “Gosh, who put that there,”

and, quite frankly, I am never going to give any of them the pleasure of that. They'd enjoy it too much, the blood suckers.

Big sigh. On my own. It was very quiet. Still. The angst seemed to have disappeared. It was calm. No, Little Miss Angry in front of me. No Little Miss Sneaky behind me. Just me to carry the flag, so to speak.

Well, there you go, I thought. The behemoths charged at each other, their heads collided, there was a loud crash, the crunching of bones and the spilling of blood and now there bodies lay on the ground in some far off field, motionless. I felt nothing. I got on with my work.

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