Thursday, 3 February 2011

Jargon, Hot Babes And Awfully Short-Lived Optimism.

I'm in a really good mood this morning, mainly due to the success of my first undercover mission.

Not only have I established that Max's company isn't hiding its profits from the Inland Revenue - mainly because it isn't actually making any - but there's another gold star in the diary. And I can confirm that the size of the company one works for doesn't necessarily relate to other things either.

In fact, I'm so full of endorphins that I don't even get upset when I receive my first list of local vacancies from Trovit Jobs, athough I can't understand what any of the job titles mean. What the hell is an Riser Analyst? Or a PHP Developer?

I don't let my ignorance phase me, though. Why should I? It's not as if not having a clue ever bothers The Boss, after all. And look how much more than me he earns - despite his moaning.

I devise a clever plan of action, which involves jotting down all the unfamiliar jargon in readiness for the next time I have to phone one of the officers at Northwick Council on behalf of a constituent. One of them will definitely be able to translate - seeing as they're the undisputed experts in incomprehensible ways to explain perfectly simple concepts.

Not that I get a chance to put my plan into action today, as all the usual suspects must have died, or something equally pleasing. They're all conspicuous by their absence, so Greg and I get loads of proper casework done for a change and, by the time we close for the day, we're both feeling quite flushed with success (as opposed to hormones or panic).

It's not even raining when I make my way home from work, so I can concentrate on sucking in my stomach while I walk, to make up for not having done any exercises since the exercise ball catastrophe. I shall be super-fit by the time Max and I earn our next gold star - which will hopefully be fairly soon, given that we've remembered that marital sex is not a complete chore.

Recalling last night's events has put a big smile on my face by the time I turn into our street and nearly get run over by a total idiot in a little red convertible, of the type that Max always calls a "hairdresser's car."

I shout something vaguely abusive and have just held up two fingers when the car pulls in and parks just beyond our house. Oops.

And double oops - as the driver's door swings open and Ellen gets out, showing far more thigh than necessary. As per bloody usual.

I peer towards her in an attempt to spot cellulite, and have just been rewarded by the sight of a dark blobby patch, when the passenger door opens and Max almost falls out onto the pavement.

"Holy shit," I say, as Ellen spots me and shouts,

"Molly! Hi! Look what I picked up on my way home." She does one of those infuriating giggles, then says, "Your husband! So I thought I'd give him a cheap thrill and take him for a spin in my hot new car. What d'you think? Isn't she a babe?"

Gah. Ga-a-ah. And why do supposedly adult women feel the need to use the words, "hot" and "babe"?

"I wouldn't know," I say, immediately sounding like a repressed introvert who never has sex. And who definitely has no sense of humour. "I don't know many hot babes with whom to make a comparison."

"Oh, you are funny, Molly," says Ellen. "You always make me laugh."

I don't ask whether she normally laughs with me, or at me. I'm too busy glaring at Max, who looks awfully red in the face, and is very windswept. He really needs to wear his glasses more often, as he obviously hasn't spotted my expression.

"God, that was fun," he says. "Great, isn't she, Mol?"

She? She? Who or what are we talking about - Ellen, or the bloody car? I'm still trying to decide when Max says goodbye to Ellen and walks towards me.

"That's the way to live, isn't it?" he says. "I'd love to get one like that."

I can't help myself. Before I know it, my good mood has evaporated and I lose control of my tongue.

"Yeah," I say. "And you could grow a pony-tail to go with it, too. Then your mid-life crisis would be complete."

Someone seriously needs to invent a gag which activates automatically when one's blood pressure hits a certain level. It might be the saving of my marriage. If that same someone could also invent a way to make nymphomaniac neighbours with more money than sense disappear via telekinesis, taking their bloody sports cars with them.

Now I feel like the Volvo of women all over again. A hot babe I am not. Apart from this bloody hot flush, which I think may be rage.


  1. PHP is a programming language for websites. :)

    I have no idea what a Riser Analyst is, or does.

  2. And that was one of the few job titles I could actually recall how to spell ;-)

  3. You mustn't change jobs - you are an inspiration to the rest of us who also have to deal with the mad, bad and the sad on behalf of our bosses.

    If necessary you must suffer for your art Molly!

  4. Ha - thanks. I think ;-§

    Though you probably don't need to worry - I doubt I'll find another job until I can at least decipher what these bloody job titles mean!