Thursday, 10 June 2010

Lies, Psychological Traumas and the Return of the Incompetent Silver Surfer.

Greg is wounded today. Or rather, his ego takes a knock-out blow. Mrs Nudd bursts into the office - because some idiot has left the door on the catch - and starts screaming:

“What the f*ck do you mean that there’s nothing more you can do for me?"

Then she starts throwing files and chairs around, and ends up holding a letter-opener to my throat. (Why do the nutters always go for my throat? Is it because I am almost a midget?)

Greg is surprisingly butch (for him). He attempts to take hold of Mrs Nudd from behind, but then she grabs me and hangs on, so Greg tries harder and manages to yank her backwards, though she still doesn't let go of my neck. When he eventually succeeds in throwing her off-balance, she dislodges me from my chair and we all end up in a heap on the floor. 

I phone the Police while Greg manhandles (boyhandles?) the still-struggling Mrs Nudd towards the door. She calms down a bit when she hears me reporting the assault, and Greg seizes the opportunity to push her over the threshold and slam the door - but not before she’s hissed, right in his face, 

“You are the ugliest f*cker I‘ve ever seen in my life.” 

Then she goes off into the sunset to pick yet another fight with her daughter-in-law. How on earth does she expect us to make her son “see sense and come home”?

About forty minutes later, a police constable saunters in, says something about being unavoidably delayed, and then goes away looking relieved when we can’t be bothered to press charges. This may have been a mistake in retrospect, as Greg is too traumatised to do any work for the rest of the day, just keeps wandering off into the staff loo and staring hopelessly into the mirror. 

Honestly. sometimes Dinah sounds as bonkers as Mrs Nudd. She phones while Max, Josh and I are eating dinner. 

“Dad’s joined bloody Facebook now,” she says. 

“And?” I say. There’s always an “and” with Dinah.

“He’s got six friends already, apart from me - and they’re all women. I told you not to teach him to use that computer!” 

“Well, maybe they’re old school-friends or something,” I say - with an optimism I do not feel. 

“They’re all about twenty and look Thai! Silver surfer, my arse.” 

Dinah sucks noisily on her cigarette for emphasis, says “Fucksake!” and hangs up. Sometimes I think it wouldn’t matter if I walked off when she phones, like I do with Miss Chambers. I am nothing more than a receptacle for the venting of others and it’s very tiring. 

Much later, when everyone else is in bed, Johnny negotiates receipt of my challenging photo with consummate ease, simply sending an email that says, “Very attractive!” He has more political awareness than The Boss, that’s for sure, and I feel compelled to send him a proper picture as a reward. 

I look hideous in all the non-gurning ones so then I have to spend hours trying to photograph myself without getting my arms in the frame. This is not as easy as it sounds. No wonder all those EMO kids look so odd in their MySpace profile pictures. I end up sending one showing me with my eyes closed, on the basis that this allows me to retain an air of mystery. 

When I get into bed, Max asks me where I’ve been, and I say that I’ve been working on a report for the Select Committee. I don’t think he knows The Boss isn’t on any committees since the election, but he does go a bit quiet after that. Now I’m not sure if he doesn’t believe me, or if he’s just asleep. 

1 comment:

  1. Golly.

    Now that is some kind of day.

    Oh, and about that army/framy thing: shoot your foot instead. It worked for a while in WW1 - y'know, Blighty and all that.

    Shoot both in fact. Sacrifice mid-wife crisis to the Daily Mail's opprobium and think of Damien H, Tate Modern and the auction potential of Molly Foot Farm produce.

    Johnny H? That'll separate the sheep from the goats and see what he's made of.