There was a line in my blog that I had been thinking about when I fell asleep, about smashing Sibella’s face into the desk (has anybody seen Irreversible? I am bad?)(I believe nothing is off limits for humour, it makes every situation better) and dancing around her workspace maniacally chanting, “You deserved that, you deserved that, you so deserved that!” Or did I chant, “That’ll learn ya, that’ll learn ya, that’ll learn ya!” Whichever. Pointing and shrieking and clapping and cheering. The bitch got her face slammed for being annoying. You know the line I am talking about.
Anyway, in this day and age, with the militant FemBots on the rise and anything that is not strictly PC being thoroughly frowned upon, because, you know, we can’t have anybody straying from the strict 21st century script. (It is working well thus far, after all) It is Verboten!
It is either tie a white ribbon around every lamp post in my neighbourhood, or remove the line, the feminist council has met and they are my orders, should I choose to follow them. If I don’t, I will, of course, explode in 10 seconds, as per usual for any man going against the sisterhood.
So, my first task this morning was to edit the said line and make everything right with the world.
I’m not at all sure why Sibella dropping down dead from an unexpected aneurism couldn’t, actually, be the outcome, but it can’t, the three angry lesbians on the council decreed it so.
(It was supposed to be funny, but sometimes such lines don’t read as funny, you know. Some things have to be said, they don’t translate very easily to the written word. They just come of as sounding a little angry. My buddy Anthony taught me that. He is hysterically funny in person, but written down he just came off as the angry drunk that he is)
So amend the line I certainly did.
This took longer than the usual, allotted time over breakfast, so I was late getting upstairs and Sam was certainly saying that I am forever pissing around in the mornings.
“What are you pissssssssing around doing?” he said. “That stupid blog that nobody ever reads?” I know, quite hurtful, isn’t it?
It meant that I showered and Sam had to put the bins out, which is, after all, my chore. He was a little mouthy about that, but we met at the front door, me dead locking it and he giving me lip about wasting time at the speed of light, but it was a lovely morning, I noticed as I shut the front gate. It was a crisp 20 degrees and all was well with the world.
The trees, the gardens, the bushes, the flowers, the sun, the breeze, it was a lovely morning. Sam looked at me and said, that he gets to the office before anyone and he has to carry the refill for the water cooler up stairs “Poor, poor me.” He has to throw all the windows open for fresh air. It was what was waiting for him at the end of his morning walk. All the other boys he works with don’t get in until mid morning. My baby likes a little more luxury at work than that. All he gets is a bunch of boys in a start up. Sam is funny, he’d give a lot for some different variety of teas and some espresso coffee, but alas, he gets a keg of beer delivered every week, which just thrills him, let me tell you.
The first person I saw was Alex Clover, oh, other that Fat Guts Carol Brady who is always in trying to score brownie points, or is that fill an empty life, I can’t decide which. Alex was dressed in a tight black Bonds t-shirt and he looked all together all right. Not longer after he’d changed into, what could be best described as, a body shirt and he still looked altogether splendid. I’d like somebody to hold him down so that I could lick him.
Mr Flatline was in after that. 8.30am. He didn’t say good morning to me. He never says good morning to me, despite the fact that he and I work within the closest proximity. Do you think he senses my bitch? Do you think he feels the contempt I feel for him? Actually, to tell you the truth, I think he is so self focussed he wouldn’t even know who I was out of the work environment. I don’t know what he does? He is some middle manager of insignificant importance, except in his own mind, of course.
Sam text to say that yesterday was “the boys” gym day and that as per usual they’d left their solid gym clothes lying on the bathroom floor, which always makes the bathroom stink. I told him to grab a pair of their solid jocks to sniff and he told me I was disgusting.
“Grab Lachies (the young, handsome boss boy) I’d like to sniff the boss boy’s crack.”
“What?”
“Run my nose up the back of his nickers.”
“You are disgusting.”
I was only half joking.
Another crime against humanity, black mark against Sibella’s name, is that she calls the girls in HR mate. In her hokey New Zealand accent, what’s more. I hate that, pet hate that. Mates, or people referred to as mate, are always male. Woman can’t be referred to as mate. It's unnatural. I know some women claim the right, but that doesn't make it right. It just sounds odd.
Ironically, as Sibella started up her daily yapfest, Gretel, or as she says, Gritil, said something and Sibella replied back, of course, loudly, “Oh th’t would just shut me. I find thut sort of thung rilly annoys me so much.”
You are annoying, I thought.
She didn’t get the irony, that she was being annoying, being annoyed.
9.15. And no sign of F. I have to be really careful with my back to the walkway, as F moves very quietly, stealthily almost. There is just the almost indiscernible rustle of man made fibre on man made fibre. I can always hear her approaching, if it is quiet around me.
Fffff, fffff. Fffff, fffff. Fffff, fffff. Fffff, fffff.
9.30am. Still no sign of F. I’m sure she is just itching for a day off, but just can’t justify it. She is my kind of girl, sick days are for taking in my book, even if I haven’t taken one sick day. Oh, I don’t know why, clearly I am just not trying hard enough. I’ve had lots of time off in the last few years and now I just get on and get my sorry arse to work. I have spent the last hour writing my journal.
9.30am. Text from F, “same as yesterday, I’ll be in around 10am.” She tells me later in the day that our boss is travelling overseas. I guess that means she’ll be taking time off.
I’m going to get a coffee.
F was in at 10am.
Then she went and had a blood test, not long after she had arrived. I’m leaning towards hypochondria, for F. Don’t think I am criticising, I like people because of their quirks, it makes them interesting. She didn’t say what the blood test was for, but she had a referral.
I said, “Well, enjoy,” as she left, which made her laugh.
I got stuck into my end of month for November and got it done, out of the way, over and done with. No more lying in bed at night thinking about it. I completed it. I went straight into it when it didn’t balance and looked at the usual stuff that was out. Ascertained what they were and added them in and balanced it, without actually fixing any of the consistent problems. Done. I had it finished by 11am. Something I felt was going to be really difficult and something I’d never get done, was done. Yay!
And then, as though to tune right into my intolerance, Sibella Nasty Raspy and Mingey Von Wart, (Mingey is stick thin and has that permanently stressed physical attitude, like she never gets a decent meal. The sinews in her neck and her hands are permanently taught. She pulls her hair up into a tight pony tail, as though she just wasn’t severe looking enough. She has a penchant for cream and coffee coloured clothes, of sack cloth fibres, although today she was in a little black dress and heels, as though she was having breakfast at Tiffany’s) with her harsh Scandinavian tones had a meeting at Nasty’s desk, it was like listening to two cats fighting under a blanket, listening to them speak.
On went the headphones, let me assure you. Rolling Stones, Aftermath. I had a lot of fiddly changes to make across a slew of applications, so it was perfect. Take me away from them, Mick. You can hear the testosterone of a young man in Mick’s voice, the blokeiness, that, perhaps, you don’t hear any more. He sounds like somebody you’d want to have sex with, which I would no longer want to do.
Oh dear, back from lunch, and Mr FlatLine was on one of his epic phones calls, murmuring blandly into his mobile phone. He goes quiet and then he comes back to life, laughing as though he’d said something funny, however nothing he would ever said would be funny.
Oh, he must be talking about something personal, or confidential, as he is suddenly taking quietly and I can barely hear him. See, porridge, you can do it.
While we have an open plan office, we have sound proof booths for people in which to go and have their conversations. And yet, I’d be considered rude, if I ever suggested he go and use one.
He was on the phone for an hour and 25 minutes. How can that be best business practice in anybody’s interpretation?
I tuned out for the rest of the afternoon, listening to Stones records Now and Between the Buttons. It was a bit odd, I guess, but fuck it, I thought.
And then the day was over and I packed my things and said, in my head, if not out loud, I’m out of here, bitches.
I had to walk to Readings in Lygon Street getting there sometime after 5pm and sometime before 11pm to buy Lucy’s birthday present Bake by Alison Thompson, which they’d got for me from another one of their shops. She’s studying to be a pastry chef.
Ironically, as Sibella started up her daily yapfest, Gretel, or as she says, Gritil, said something and Sibella replied back, of course, loudly, “Oh th’t would just shut me. I find thut sort of thung rilly annoys me so much.”
You are annoying, I thought.
She didn’t get the irony, that she was being annoying, being annoyed.
9.15. And no sign of F. I have to be really careful with my back to the walkway, as F moves very quietly, stealthily almost. There is just the almost indiscernible rustle of man made fibre on man made fibre. I can always hear her approaching, if it is quiet around me.
Fffff, fffff. Fffff, fffff. Fffff, fffff. Fffff, fffff.
9.30am. Still no sign of F. I’m sure she is just itching for a day off, but just can’t justify it. She is my kind of girl, sick days are for taking in my book, even if I haven’t taken one sick day. Oh, I don’t know why, clearly I am just not trying hard enough. I’ve had lots of time off in the last few years and now I just get on and get my sorry arse to work. I have spent the last hour writing my journal.
9.30am. Text from F, “same as yesterday, I’ll be in around 10am.” She tells me later in the day that our boss is travelling overseas. I guess that means she’ll be taking time off.
I’m going to get a coffee.
F was in at 10am.
Then she went and had a blood test, not long after she had arrived. I’m leaning towards hypochondria, for F. Don’t think I am criticising, I like people because of their quirks, it makes them interesting. She didn’t say what the blood test was for, but she had a referral.
I said, “Well, enjoy,” as she left, which made her laugh.
I got stuck into my end of month for November and got it done, out of the way, over and done with. No more lying in bed at night thinking about it. I completed it. I went straight into it when it didn’t balance and looked at the usual stuff that was out. Ascertained what they were and added them in and balanced it, without actually fixing any of the consistent problems. Done. I had it finished by 11am. Something I felt was going to be really difficult and something I’d never get done, was done. Yay!
And then, as though to tune right into my intolerance, Sibella Nasty Raspy and Mingey Von Wart, (Mingey is stick thin and has that permanently stressed physical attitude, like she never gets a decent meal. The sinews in her neck and her hands are permanently taught. She pulls her hair up into a tight pony tail, as though she just wasn’t severe looking enough. She has a penchant for cream and coffee coloured clothes, of sack cloth fibres, although today she was in a little black dress and heels, as though she was having breakfast at Tiffany’s) with her harsh Scandinavian tones had a meeting at Nasty’s desk, it was like listening to two cats fighting under a blanket, listening to them speak.
On went the headphones, let me assure you. Rolling Stones, Aftermath. I had a lot of fiddly changes to make across a slew of applications, so it was perfect. Take me away from them, Mick. You can hear the testosterone of a young man in Mick’s voice, the blokeiness, that, perhaps, you don’t hear any more. He sounds like somebody you’d want to have sex with, which I would no longer want to do.
Oh dear, back from lunch, and Mr FlatLine was on one of his epic phones calls, murmuring blandly into his mobile phone. He goes quiet and then he comes back to life, laughing as though he’d said something funny, however nothing he would ever said would be funny.
Oh, he must be talking about something personal, or confidential, as he is suddenly taking quietly and I can barely hear him. See, porridge, you can do it.
While we have an open plan office, we have sound proof booths for people in which to go and have their conversations. And yet, I’d be considered rude, if I ever suggested he go and use one.
He was on the phone for an hour and 25 minutes. How can that be best business practice in anybody’s interpretation?
I tuned out for the rest of the afternoon, listening to Stones records Now and Between the Buttons. It was a bit odd, I guess, but fuck it, I thought.
And then the day was over and I packed my things and said, in my head, if not out loud, I’m out of here, bitches.
I had to walk to Readings in Lygon Street getting there sometime after 5pm and sometime before 11pm to buy Lucy’s birthday present Bake by Alison Thompson, which they’d got for me from another one of their shops. She’s studying to be a pastry chef.
It was a lovely afternoon, sunny and gorgeous. Sam took Buddy to the dog park. I met them there at the end of my walk and we all walked home together.
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