Fifty Shades of Beige

It was a blustery, warm, overcast day from all accounts promising to be 34 degrees. 34 fucken degrees and all my short sleeve shirts were in the wash.

I had to go for my CT scan today, so I hustled along and got to work by 8am. I was hoping for a little quease and piet before the others got in. It was likely the Fatty Cake would be away again today, as Paddington came over yesterday arvo to say she may, or may, not be in today. Translation, she won’t be in.  She'd been away all week, I was hoping for another day.

We’ve started referring to her as F. The other day she and I were chatting, my phone was on the desk in front of us. A message came through from Sam asking if Fatty had made it in that day. Clear as day on my giant, luxurious iPhone 6plus screen. I slid my hand across the desk and covered the screen, as I told a friend of mine, cool as a cucumber. It wasn’t food so F wasn’t paying it any notice.

And while F wasn’t in this morning, I didn’t have the office to myself, I could have, but no. That sad cow, as Mazz used to refer to her, Stella Charmers, 50 Shades of Beige, from the other building was in my office ruining my solitude, with her spindly fingers clacking away on the keyboard making use of her Year 12 touch typing skills. Just her, only her. What are you doing here? I wanted to ask. But I didn’t, because if I had it would have come across as a hate crime. I forced myself to say, “Good Morning.” Gritted teeth, baby, gritted teeth.

“Good morning,” she said. She never would have said anything if I hadn’t said it first. I could see what a strain it was for her, to drag herself away from her VERY IMPORTANT WORK. She’s always doing VERY IMPORTANT WORK, sweetie. She is one serious cow, bordering on unpleasant.

She departed the office pretty soon after I arrived. Was it something I said? Who cares, why question it.

There was a moment of peace after that, perhaps half an hour.

But, as soon as the “girls” arrived in the office, they were chatting away. Why do “girls” talk so much? And the girls here have awful voices. Fran and Mindy Van Wart were in first and while Fran has a nice smooth voice, Mindy Van Wart’s ugly Scandinavian tones could strip paint from walls. What is it with those really ugly vowels? It’s like she chokes on every one of them, firing them out her arse, rat tat tat, in between the consonants. None of the latest HR recruits are Aussies, they all seem to have accents from exotic locales, what’s with that? (At the risk of sounding like somebody from Reclaim Australia) Just saying? I don’t care. The latest debutant is some fat Scottish slapper, who has round wire glasses and a penchant for pastel colour twin sets, pearls and brown slacks. Why are you dressing like a woman 30 years your senior, I want to ask her.

Oh Fifty Shade of Beige soon came back and pretty soon was yabbering away with Fat Frankie. Really? Fuck off to your own office you sad cow. And fat boy shut the fuck up. Fat Greek, only son, I bet, who loves the sound of his own voice.

Oh great, Fat Boy has just told Fifty Shades of Beige that he was having an industrial shredder delivered today to shred all the remaining paperwork, before he leaves next week. Oh yeah! Just when I thought Obnoxious Jelly Roll Fat Boy couldn’t possibly get any more annoying than he already is. Serves me right for being antsy, just wanting some peace and quiet in the office. All you new age hippie types would be blabbering something about getting what you resist, or what did I do to bring this on? Or something? No doubt,  (David) Gioncallis would be offering me some sort of positive affirmation to recite.

Fortunately, Fat Frankie set himself up with the shredder at the front of our floor, far enough away from me. I so wanted to walk up the front to see his fat legs wiggling violently from the metal teeth, as the industrial shredder devoured his fat carcass, with a spray of blood across the walls and ceiling like that fountain in front of the UN building in Geneva. But, sadly, no.

Still, I was back to peace and quiet. F called in sick. Apparently, she sounded like Darth Vader. I was busy, got to work.

But no, Fifty Shades of Beige was soon back. She had meetings with people all morning at the desk next to mine and I had to listen to her low level intense murmur for hours, like being blindfolded and having that constant drip of water hit your forehead with metronome regularity. Discussing her Spanish holiday, her wedding and her girlish aspirations towards motherhood. “Ideally, I’d like to have 18 years old, well adjusted, educated and ready to go out into the world kids.”

I heard the Fifty Shades of Beige say to one of her many visitors, “I come over here so I am not disturbed.”

Upon hearing her say that, I could see myself throwing myself across the desk, like Patsy Stone screaming, “You bitch troll from hell!”

Fat Frankie and Fifty Shades of Beige both concluded that their main pet hate were people sending them emails with no phone number so they couldn’t call them back, no doubt to hear their own voices just a little more. They love to talk.

Fifty Shades of Beige said she felt like sending those emails back return to sender due to no contact details, “But that wouldn’t help reception’s opinion of me being no fun and too aggressive.” She laughed nervously.

Reception’s opinion, I thought? That’s not just a fucking opinion.