I’ve lost a kilo. Yay. I haven’t really done anything to accomplish that, except walk to work instead of drive. I was 2 kilos over my maximum weight, now I am ½ a kilo… over. I’m nearly back under my maximum, never to be gone over, weight. Yay for me. Pat, pat. Of course, that is a long way away from my optimum weight, but, pat pat none the less.
I've ridden my bike twice.
I thought about my weight as I sat in my office first thing this morning, with my coffee, today’s biscuit was jam fancy. (we have different biscuits each day) I picked up two.
Bevan walked to his office with a hot young man. Nice, I thought. A new staff member, I assumed. He didn’t come into my office to introduce him, as he introduced him around to the guys in the main office. I was pointed at through the glass wall of my office. I’m not exactly a staff member to be committed to memory, I know that, I didn’t care.
I was starting to twiddle my thumbs. I don’t know if I have missed anything, but I didn’t seem to have much to do.
A little while later, after introductions to the team, I realised what he was all about. Oh, I see, he is a work experience boy, so I guess that means he is young. His name is Travis and he’s quite a strapping lad. Very cute. This office is such a maze of structures and windows and cubicles and partitions, that it is hard to get a good look at anyone. Still, it is probably best, so as not to perve on a 17 year old. He doesn’t look that young, but he could be conceivably 17 and I’d already been gazing at his arse.
Is that legal? I’m sure it is.
“I’m sorry officer, I had no idea.”
Is it wrong to imagine a seventeen year olds jocks stretched tight across his sexy rump?
I sat for most of the morning and wrote my journal. Surely, I should be doing more than this, I thought. What does the regular girl do?
Look around. Shrug. I shouldn’t question it. I think it is one of the few advantages temporary roles, those in charge are just pleased that they have a potential problem sorted, someone filling the seat. They are getting the basics of the work done and they don’t have to think much more about it.
There must be more to life than this?
I’ve just been reading an article about James Lovelock, a crusty old environmental scientist from Cornwall, who says the time to save the human race is over. It is just too late. We were passed the time for action in the early 2000’s when the world first started thinking that it needed to do something to address climate change.
Apparently, all the Liberal voters have got their wish. Let's dump the concerns about the environment because it increases household bills to a level that none of us want.
Yeah, we might as well, because it is now too late.
By 2020 extreme weather will be the norm.
By 2040 much of the world will be unrecognisable, Europe will be a desert and much of England will be under water.
By 2100 most of the environment we know will be destroyed and most of the population will be wiped out.
It is now too late to stop climate change, we pissed around too long, as we are still pissing around.
Enjoy your life, hugs your kids, you have roughly 20 years left before the world really turns to shit.
He says we have roughly 20 years left to enjoy our lives.
Hmm, what to do?
Do I want to be sitting in a pokey uninteresting office doing boring and uninteresting work if we effectively don’t have much time left?
I don’t think so.
Now think about what you had just decided? The decision should still be the same no matter how much time is left. We should all live each day as if it is our last. Life should be your bucket list.
Oh, my head spun! Whir! Too many thoughts!I wrote my journal. I pushed my USB right into my work computer and typed away unashamedly. Fuck it!
I kept doing mental calculations about what I had to do. I kept rechecking those calculations and they came out the same. I could do it all in a day, two days tops and I had a week, more than a week.
Later in the morning, a cute gay boy came into our office. Shiny, groomed, presented “just so”. Smiley, gelled, walking through as though he owned the place. He smiled very gayly to me on the way in. And then on the way out again.
He came back a bit later and repeated the process.
He smiled his “look at me” smile. And off he marched, full of gay confidence. The confidence had nothing to do with me and everything to do with his perception of his own beauty. The fact that I smiled made his narcissism vibrate. Any male looking would have the same effect. Eighteen to eighty years old, I’m sure it would make no difference.
I did nothing all afternoon. Zip. Zilch. Niete. I wrote my journal. I added a lot of those details that sometimes I miss. I headed out into the main office and when I got to the main door I pretended that I had forgotten something and when I turned around I subtly checked that nobody could see my screen through the glass wall, they couldn’t. I went back to my desk and sat down not worrying any longer about the pretext.
I text Rachel later in the afternoon. I wanted to hear what she had to say. She makes me laugh with what she has to say about the drudgery of life.
New assignment, just as bored, I wrote.
I’m at school pick up, it’s a larf I tell ya. So much wasted money.
Don’t worry environmental change will kill them all, that should cheer you up, I replied.
But that means it will kill us too.
Well… yes… there is that.
They are funny. I laugh a lot. Let me describe one to you. Blonde hair in a ponytail. Trout pout lips. Black tank top. Black leather, I kid you not, short, short running pants. Black runners and black leg warmer type things. She has black tennis socks on. Ankles visible. And then these compression (?) things from ankle to knee.
Her son hasn’t worked out she’s a freak yet. He’s in grade 2. He’s on the verge of working it out, I’m sure.
She’s 30 to 35, it is hard to tell. She could be Joan Rivers in disguise.
She’s the black Maserati mum.
She’s got it worked out. Her husband is a lawyer, but is a pom. She can’t find work here. Oooh so sad.It must make you feel better as you work away knowing there are unemployed people driving around in very fast, expensive, Italian cars. I know it does me. It just made the day disappear. Tra la la.
Oh, good for her, so she has to prostitute herself to some old fart lawyer, constantly reinventing herself with more and more invasive plastic surgery until she looks like some grotesque Hollywood diva, fearful that he will trade her in on a new, faster, younger model. She deserves to be compensated for turning herself into a freak.
I wondered if she ever went to school pick up with a bandaged face?
I wondered how many kids got school pick up from a bandaged cadaver behind the steering wheel of the Mercedes.
“Mummy can’t get out of the car today, sweetheart.”
The afternoon slid away. Sam messaged me and said the day had gone dark and it was about to pour with rain. I turned and looked out my window and I was somewhat surprised that it was black outside. The day I remembered had slid completely out of view and was now grey and desolate, the sun shine had been replaced by sheets of water falling splish splash from the sky.
Sam worried about Buddy. I was worried about myself.
I walked to work sweating when I got there, having to stand under the air hand dryer to dry my sweaty back. And… I was going to get wet walking home by rain.
Melbourne weather.
I grabbed my bag and headed out the door at 4.30pm. Sam broke his black, collapsible full sized, umbrella sometime back at a time when I was driving to work, so he took my dark brown, collapsible full sized, umbrella, amid much protesting from me. He eventually replaced it with a regular sized black folding umbrella covered in yellow Pokka Dots.
“Really?” I looked at the umbrella. I looked back at Sam. “This is the best you could do?” I remember holding it like it was something diseased. You know how straight boys look when they are forced to use their girlfriend's floral umbrella, that was how I felt I was going to look.
“It is lovely,” said Sam.
“Give me back my brown umbrella back.”
“No!” He shook his head. “I bought all three umbrellas” – it was true – “so I get to pick which one I want.”
“But…”
He moved his finger in the air from left to right, his mouth pursed, his eyes burned. That’s all. No more correspondence will be entered into.
I popped my itsy bitsy yellow pokka dot umbrella and walked home. I should have swished. The umbrella would have indicated a swish. But, I didn't swish.
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