"Thanks for the photo," says Johnny, in his first email of the day. "I miss you. Though I don't much like the hat you're wearing."
"It's a political statement," I say. "I am taking on all the big tax-dodging companies."
"Oh," he says, "So I take it you won't be sleeping with me, then?"
Bugger. I hadn't thought of that. I am doomed to have no sex-life between now and death. Which sometimes can't come soon enough, especially when Miss Chambers has already phoned twice this morning. I'd quite happily pepper-spray her, now I come to think of it.
"How many millions in dirty oil money do your lot hide away, then?" I say. "Just out of interest."
"I couldn't possibly comment," says Johnny. "To quote you and your lot. But you could always go under cover and investigate me as part of your campaign. While wearing no clothes, of course. Anything less - or rather, more - would immediately make me suspicious and you'd be rumbled before you'd discovered anything at all."
Honestly, has Johnny no idea how distracting that sort of thinking is? I do wish Max would stay awake at night a bit more often. In fact, it's probably his fault I am at the mercy of a smooth-talking oil baron, so I don't need to feel quite so horribly guilty. A woman has needs, after all. And not for chocolate, either - no matter what Cadbury and Lindt may try to claim.
Anyway, first I'm a bit distracted by the image Johnny's conjured up, and then the phones go mad before I can reply to him, so my needs go unmet, as usual, while I deal with Miss Emms and her psychotic guinea pig, and Edmund Beales' rapidly-increasing obsession with all things high-visibility. I bloody well hope no *CPNs are going to be made redundant, that's all I can say.
The usual suspects take up so much of the afternoon that, by the time I send Johnny another email saying, "I'm back - where are you?", I get an Out-Of-Office reply advising me that he's now en route to an ex-Soviet Union country whose name I can't even begin to pronounce. And where woolly hats would definitely be an absolute necessity - even when naked and working undercover.
I hold that thought while Greg shuts down his computer and rushes off to a branch meeting. Then I put my hat back on, and lock up - while praying that Josh will be out for the evening, and that Max will actually stay awake for more than five minutes.
You never know, investigating his company might pay off, too. Seeing as it could also be avoiding tax - even if on a much smaller scale than Johnny's.
Talking of relative size, I wonder if the fact that Max is tall and Johnny isn't has anything to do with why one of them is so much more of a go-getter than the other? As well as signifying other, less immediately-obvious (albeit rather important) physical differences?
Maybe I'll start my revolution at home. Just until I get the hang of it.
*CPNs - Community Psychiatric Nurses. There aren't enough of them to manage the usual suspects. Not by a long chalk.
Showing posts with label Global Oil Company. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Global Oil Company. Show all posts
Wednesday, 2 February 2011
Friday, 10 September 2010
Short Sight, The Pox and Emanuelle in Nurse's Clothing.
God, what a total shambles. It seems that I am much better at affairs of state (at an admittedly-unimportant level) than at affairs of the heart.
When Max drops me off at the Marriott - which really is bloody miles out of Northwick - Greg is hiding in the lobby, waiting for me. So far, so good. He bundles me straight into the Gregmobile and drives me back into town.
Considering what a terrible driver Greg is, this is not as bad as it could have been, although there is one very hairy moment, when we almost catch up with Max, who is waiting at a set of lights. I don't think he notices us - but it is unnerving, all the same. To avoid any repetitions, we have to pootle along at about 40mph for the rest of the journey, which makes me late to meet Johnny.
I rush into the hotel, looking a bit windswept and very harassed, and am so busy trying to smooth my hair out that I walk straight into someone waiting at the reception desk.
"Excuse me," he says, in a very snooty way, and then, "Molly?"
"Johnny?"
God, he looks exactly like Putin. Same build, probably the same height - considerably shorter than Max but thankfully not a midget like me. Even the same air of authority, initially - but this doesn't really live up to expectations when he fails to get the hotel to sort out the error they've made with his booking. It turns out that he's been given a single room instead of the luxury double he'd booked. This is probably because he normally has someone like me to book his hotel accommodation, and is incapable of doing it properly himself. Let's hope the similarity with The Boss ends there.
Things improve when we sit down at our table. Johnny can't stop looking at me, and I feel really, really self-conscious, although the lights are so dim that, hopefully, he can't see my incipient beard. I relax a bit after a couple of gins, though - and then we eat, and everything is so nice. At least for a while.
We're just two people, talking: about life, our hopes, how we feel about the choices we've made. No-one mentions kids, or bills, what's for dinner or where the clean towels are. I haven't felt like this in years. Like a woman, instead of just a function.
When we've finished dessert, it's already quite late. Johnny leans back in his chair, then says,
"So, now what? Shall we go up to my room? No pressure - but I know I want to."
No pressure, my arse. Half a continent travelled, the vagaries of Heathrow and British Rail negotiated, a hotel cock-up and an a la carte dinner paid for. I could hardly say no, even if I wanted to. Though I'm not at all sure whether my shivering is due to excitement, nerves or just the omission of my thermal underwear in honour of the occasion.
He takes my hand as we walk along the corridor. It's the first time we've touched, and it feels more intimate than you'd think possible for such a small gesture. Then he opens the door to his room, flicks the overhead light off, and leads me inside. Oh God.
"So here we are," he says. "At last."
He pulls me towards him and leans forward to kiss me.
"Ouch," I say. My hair is caught in the metal hinge of his glasses. Untangling it seems to take ages, and he has to take the glasses off to do so. He puts them down on the chest of drawers, which can only be a good thing as I am sure I look much better without them. Then he moves in for another attempt at a kiss, misjudges the distance and almost headbuts me.
"Ow!"
He steps back, catches his foot on something, and promptly falls over the corner of the bed. There's a hell of a crash and I start laughing. I can't help it - it's a nervous thing with me: I always laugh when people fall over. Though I stop when I switch the light back on and see the blood on Johnny's forehead, and his deeply unamused expression. He must have hit the edge of the bedside table when he fell.
So just when I should have been turning into Emanuelle, I have to do a Florence Nightingale impression instead: cleaning the wound, and finding a plaster, while all the time Johnny's sitting there squinting. It's not a good look, but I try not to focus on that. I doubt he can focus on anything without his glasses, judging by how thick the lenses are. I can't see anything when I try them on in a misguided attempt to lighten the mood.
Eventually he's all patched up, and he shuffles over so that I can lie down beside him, and takes me in his arms - it's a good job I'm so small, as the bloody bed is tiny. He starts stroking my shoulder and kissing my neck. This is more like it. Then his mobile rings.
"I'd better get this," he says.
Half an hour later, he's still talking, though God knows what about. His side of the conversation seems restricted to questions about degrees of fever, and the number and location of someone's spots. It must be another Global Oil Company disaster. What on earth have they done now? Poisoned a water supply, or something?
I am dying for a cigarette, so I mime that I am going outside, but Johnny waves at me to wait. Then he says, into the receiver,
"Excuse me a moment, darling - room service is here." Then he covers the phone with his hand and says, "Molly, I'm really sorry about this. It sounds as if my daughter's got chicken pox."
He's on the phone to his wife. His wife. Oh, my God - what am I doing? While my husband is at home, waiting for me. I find my shoes and my bag, blow Johnny a kiss and walk out.
I phone a taxi from the hotel lobby, and am at home before Newsnight has ended. Max is asleep on the sofa, so I tiptoe upstairs and take a shower. I feel so grubby. Though at least I've already had chicken pox - not that I was likely to catch any other kind, given the absence of any exchange of bodily fluids. There wasn't even any nudity. I might as well have worn my thermal underwear.
When Max drops me off at the Marriott - which really is bloody miles out of Northwick - Greg is hiding in the lobby, waiting for me. So far, so good. He bundles me straight into the Gregmobile and drives me back into town.
Considering what a terrible driver Greg is, this is not as bad as it could have been, although there is one very hairy moment, when we almost catch up with Max, who is waiting at a set of lights. I don't think he notices us - but it is unnerving, all the same. To avoid any repetitions, we have to pootle along at about 40mph for the rest of the journey, which makes me late to meet Johnny.
I rush into the hotel, looking a bit windswept and very harassed, and am so busy trying to smooth my hair out that I walk straight into someone waiting at the reception desk.
"Excuse me," he says, in a very snooty way, and then, "Molly?"
"Johnny?"
God, he looks exactly like Putin. Same build, probably the same height - considerably shorter than Max but thankfully not a midget like me. Even the same air of authority, initially - but this doesn't really live up to expectations when he fails to get the hotel to sort out the error they've made with his booking. It turns out that he's been given a single room instead of the luxury double he'd booked. This is probably because he normally has someone like me to book his hotel accommodation, and is incapable of doing it properly himself. Let's hope the similarity with The Boss ends there.
Things improve when we sit down at our table. Johnny can't stop looking at me, and I feel really, really self-conscious, although the lights are so dim that, hopefully, he can't see my incipient beard. I relax a bit after a couple of gins, though - and then we eat, and everything is so nice. At least for a while.
We're just two people, talking: about life, our hopes, how we feel about the choices we've made. No-one mentions kids, or bills, what's for dinner or where the clean towels are. I haven't felt like this in years. Like a woman, instead of just a function.
When we've finished dessert, it's already quite late. Johnny leans back in his chair, then says,
"So, now what? Shall we go up to my room? No pressure - but I know I want to."
No pressure, my arse. Half a continent travelled, the vagaries of Heathrow and British Rail negotiated, a hotel cock-up and an a la carte dinner paid for. I could hardly say no, even if I wanted to. Though I'm not at all sure whether my shivering is due to excitement, nerves or just the omission of my thermal underwear in honour of the occasion.
He takes my hand as we walk along the corridor. It's the first time we've touched, and it feels more intimate than you'd think possible for such a small gesture. Then he opens the door to his room, flicks the overhead light off, and leads me inside. Oh God.
"So here we are," he says. "At last."
He pulls me towards him and leans forward to kiss me.
"Ouch," I say. My hair is caught in the metal hinge of his glasses. Untangling it seems to take ages, and he has to take the glasses off to do so. He puts them down on the chest of drawers, which can only be a good thing as I am sure I look much better without them. Then he moves in for another attempt at a kiss, misjudges the distance and almost headbuts me.
"Ow!"
He steps back, catches his foot on something, and promptly falls over the corner of the bed. There's a hell of a crash and I start laughing. I can't help it - it's a nervous thing with me: I always laugh when people fall over. Though I stop when I switch the light back on and see the blood on Johnny's forehead, and his deeply unamused expression. He must have hit the edge of the bedside table when he fell.
So just when I should have been turning into Emanuelle, I have to do a Florence Nightingale impression instead: cleaning the wound, and finding a plaster, while all the time Johnny's sitting there squinting. It's not a good look, but I try not to focus on that. I doubt he can focus on anything without his glasses, judging by how thick the lenses are. I can't see anything when I try them on in a misguided attempt to lighten the mood.
Eventually he's all patched up, and he shuffles over so that I can lie down beside him, and takes me in his arms - it's a good job I'm so small, as the bloody bed is tiny. He starts stroking my shoulder and kissing my neck. This is more like it. Then his mobile rings.
"I'd better get this," he says.
Half an hour later, he's still talking, though God knows what about. His side of the conversation seems restricted to questions about degrees of fever, and the number and location of someone's spots. It must be another Global Oil Company disaster. What on earth have they done now? Poisoned a water supply, or something?
I am dying for a cigarette, so I mime that I am going outside, but Johnny waves at me to wait. Then he says, into the receiver,
"Excuse me a moment, darling - room service is here." Then he covers the phone with his hand and says, "Molly, I'm really sorry about this. It sounds as if my daughter's got chicken pox."
He's on the phone to his wife. His wife. Oh, my God - what am I doing? While my husband is at home, waiting for me. I find my shoes and my bag, blow Johnny a kiss and walk out.
I phone a taxi from the hotel lobby, and am at home before Newsnight has ended. Max is asleep on the sofa, so I tiptoe upstairs and take a shower. I feel so grubby. Though at least I've already had chicken pox - not that I was likely to catch any other kind, given the absence of any exchange of bodily fluids. There wasn't even any nudity. I might as well have worn my thermal underwear.
Wednesday, 18 August 2010
An (Unhelpful) Meditation on the Nature of Friendship.
I am going to starve if I keep buying sandwiches for lunch. I never get to eat the damned things, as The Boss always does, either without my knowledge, or as part of an emergency diversionary tactic. Today should be different, though - as I have arranged to meet Pat for lunch. I haven't seen her for a good couple of months, or more - but I've decided to make an effort to be more sociable.
She looks well, and we spend the whole lunch hour talking nineteen to the dozen, wondering why we don't get together more often. It's only when I get back to work, and Greg asks me how it went, that I realise that Pat didn't ask me anything about my life. Not one single thing. The whole conversation was about her. Her job, her boss, her (admittedly-disastrous) love-life, her (largely-imaginary) fatigue. If we'd been set a multiple-choice test straight afterwards, I'd have scored 100% on my specialist subject: Pat's Life 2010, while she'd have been hard-pressed to answer Question One: Who Is Molly Bennett? I am nothing but a pair of ears, and I don't even merit feather-tipped earrings.
When I get home, I ask Max what he thinks about Pat.
"She's all right," he says, without any noticeable enthusiasm.
"Do you think she might be a bit self-absorbed?" I say.
"Duh, yeah," he says. "But then all your friends are. And most of your family."
God, how depressing. Am I so boring that no-one wants to ask me anything about myself? Or is it that my role in life is just to be a sounding-board for other people? I wonder what Pat would have said if I'd told her I was having a virtual affair with an International Director of a Global Oil Company. Probably that she was having an affair with Johnny's CEO, now I come to think of it. She'd feel compelled to go one better. She always does.
I'm a bit disturbed by this discovery, and it gets worse when I start thinking about my other friends. Especially the female ones. Where is the evidence for this sisterly bond we're all supposed to share? It feels more like a one-way street. I am mixing my metaphors all over the place, but then there probably isn't anyone listening anyway, so it doesn't matter. Oddly, it seems that Johnny is the only person who ever asks me how I am, and actually waits for the answer. Apart from Greg. Good God. I knew things were bad, but this bad?
And that's not even counting listening to bloody consituents' problems. Maybe I could suggest that we strike a deal when they phone up. If their problem is worse than mine, I will listen to them. If mine is worse than theirs, then they have to listen to me. Might give the usual suspects something useful to do for a change. For radical policy initiatives, look no further. I am a walking goldmine of ideas for useful changes to our public services.
She looks well, and we spend the whole lunch hour talking nineteen to the dozen, wondering why we don't get together more often. It's only when I get back to work, and Greg asks me how it went, that I realise that Pat didn't ask me anything about my life. Not one single thing. The whole conversation was about her. Her job, her boss, her (admittedly-disastrous) love-life, her (largely-imaginary) fatigue. If we'd been set a multiple-choice test straight afterwards, I'd have scored 100% on my specialist subject: Pat's Life 2010, while she'd have been hard-pressed to answer Question One: Who Is Molly Bennett? I am nothing but a pair of ears, and I don't even merit feather-tipped earrings.
When I get home, I ask Max what he thinks about Pat.
"She's all right," he says, without any noticeable enthusiasm.
"Do you think she might be a bit self-absorbed?" I say.
"Duh, yeah," he says. "But then all your friends are. And most of your family."
God, how depressing. Am I so boring that no-one wants to ask me anything about myself? Or is it that my role in life is just to be a sounding-board for other people? I wonder what Pat would have said if I'd told her I was having a virtual affair with an International Director of a Global Oil Company. Probably that she was having an affair with Johnny's CEO, now I come to think of it. She'd feel compelled to go one better. She always does.
I'm a bit disturbed by this discovery, and it gets worse when I start thinking about my other friends. Especially the female ones. Where is the evidence for this sisterly bond we're all supposed to share? It feels more like a one-way street. I am mixing my metaphors all over the place, but then there probably isn't anyone listening anyway, so it doesn't matter. Oddly, it seems that Johnny is the only person who ever asks me how I am, and actually waits for the answer. Apart from Greg. Good God. I knew things were bad, but this bad?
And that's not even counting listening to bloody consituents' problems. Maybe I could suggest that we strike a deal when they phone up. If their problem is worse than mine, I will listen to them. If mine is worse than theirs, then they have to listen to me. Might give the usual suspects something useful to do for a change. For radical policy initiatives, look no further. I am a walking goldmine of ideas for useful changes to our public services.
Tuesday, 17 August 2010
The Undeniable Difference Between an MP and the Samaritans. Oh, and a Bit of Glamour..
Oh my God. The Boss should never be allowed on a phone unsupervised. I pop out to buy a sandwich at lunchtime, and come back to find him cosily ensconced behind my desk, on the phone to someone. He's looking a bit flustered and red in the face, but when I raise my eyebrows in enquiry, he waves me away, and says, into the receiver,
"Well, I really don't know what to say."
This means that Andrew is way out of his depth - so I kick his feet off the desk and pass him a note saying, "Who is it?" He mouths back, "Mrs Saunders." God all-bloody-mighty. The last thing that poor woman needs is a conversation with The Boss, particularly when he's under the weather after an encounter with Igor. I watch, paralysed with indecision, as he says,
"So she didn't manage it this time, then?"
Oh dear. Emma Saunders must have made another suicide attempt. This must be the fourth this year. And she is not one of our numerous half-hearted attention-seekers. Emma is deadly serious. If that's not a terrible pun. We are not talking taking a few tablets and phoning for an ambulance - as happens regularly with quite a few of our usual suspects. In Emma's case, we're talking throwing herself off walkways, trying to set fire to herself, and other horrors. She's only twenty-one, and her poor parents are beside themselves with powerlessness and fear. The Boss is not the man for this job.
I try to pull the phone away from him, but he swings the chair round so that his back's to me, and then says, all too clearly:
"You do realise, don't you - that she's so determined that, ultimately, she will succeed?"
That is enough. I run into Greg's office, which is where the main "switchboard" phone is situated. I over-ride Andrew's call and cut it off. Then I crawl under Greg's desk and unplug the phone altogether.
"Hello. Hello? Molly - something's happened to the phone!" Andrew is shouting from my office.
"And to this one," I say. "I'll have to contact BT."
"But I was in the middle of an important conversation and -"
"I can handle that - on my mobile. Mrs Saunders, wasn't it? I'm calling her now. There's a sandwich for you in that carrier bag." It's my bloody sandwich, actually, but this seems a small price to pay. I sincerely hope he chokes on it.
"Take him the papers, and keep him talking," I hiss at Greg. "Emergency."
Honestly, it takes me ages to calm poor Mrs Saunders. How can someone as apparently well-meaning as The Boss be so incredibly crass? How the hell can he lack the imagination to understand what she must be going through? I can't even bear to contemplate how I would feel if it were Connie or Josh. God forbid, touch wood, and anything else that can be done to ward off such a terrible situation.
It turns out Emma's latest attempt took place while she was supposed to be being kept under special observation, so someone took their eye off the bloody ball, didn't they? For God's sake. I am furiously angry and depressed for the rest of the day. I sometimes wonder if my world view would be different if my job didn't involve regularly hearing about so much pain and misery.
Imagine being an event planner, or a play specialist - or doing any job that didn't involve dealing with people who are suffering and in distress. It would be even better if it could also avoid those who are just totally unreasonable, professional victims or neurotic whingers, come to think of it. Some days I can't envisage a wider world out there where people may actually be having a good time or are at least content with their lives. It's a good thing that neither Miss Chambers or Mr Beales phone today, as I might well have done a Steven Slater and deployed the emergency chute, after telling them what I really think of them. Though a dose of harsh reality would probably do those two a power of good - unlike Mrs Saunders.
Even when they're healthy, rich and successful, it doesn't seem to make people happy. Johnny's as miserable as sin since I said I wouldn't meet him at Heathrow. He sends me five emails today. In the fourth one, he says he feels like he did before we "met" again via Friends Reunited - old, jaded, and as if the spark is missing from his life. Ironic, seeing as he's in Moscow, where sparks are probably the last thing you'd want.
I do know what he means, though. I am feeling as if my fire has gone out again, since I decided not to meet him, and to try to damp the situation down. Life seems to have slid seamlessly back into its rut, where I wander through my life apparently unseen and unnoticed, while everyone else - including my bloody Dad - is living it up. Not that that makes any difference, as I still can't think of a good reason to go to London during Recess, so I tell Johnny that there's nothing I can do about it. His fifth email arrives just before I leave work. It says,
"Right, woman - I can't stand this any longer. If you can't get away, I shall come to you."
Good God. An International Director of a Global Oil Company, willing to cross half the world to the dot on the map that is Northwick, just to see me? Well, willing to cross most of Europe, anyway. That's still pretty impressive, given that I sometimes doubt whether Max would even bother to cross the road for the pleasure of my company.
I feel a bit dizzy and overwhelmed - though I suppose that might just be due to the chronic hyperventilation that having to cope with Andrew on a daily basis always induces. What the hell - I shall buy a copy of Glamour magazine on my way home. Sod Woman and Home. Maybe glamour's not as irrelevant to my life as I've always thought.
"Well, I really don't know what to say."
This means that Andrew is way out of his depth - so I kick his feet off the desk and pass him a note saying, "Who is it?" He mouths back, "Mrs Saunders." God all-bloody-mighty. The last thing that poor woman needs is a conversation with The Boss, particularly when he's under the weather after an encounter with Igor. I watch, paralysed with indecision, as he says,
"So she didn't manage it this time, then?"
Oh dear. Emma Saunders must have made another suicide attempt. This must be the fourth this year. And she is not one of our numerous half-hearted attention-seekers. Emma is deadly serious. If that's not a terrible pun. We are not talking taking a few tablets and phoning for an ambulance - as happens regularly with quite a few of our usual suspects. In Emma's case, we're talking throwing herself off walkways, trying to set fire to herself, and other horrors. She's only twenty-one, and her poor parents are beside themselves with powerlessness and fear. The Boss is not the man for this job.
I try to pull the phone away from him, but he swings the chair round so that his back's to me, and then says, all too clearly:
"You do realise, don't you - that she's so determined that, ultimately, she will succeed?"
That is enough. I run into Greg's office, which is where the main "switchboard" phone is situated. I over-ride Andrew's call and cut it off. Then I crawl under Greg's desk and unplug the phone altogether.
"Hello. Hello? Molly - something's happened to the phone!" Andrew is shouting from my office.
"And to this one," I say. "I'll have to contact BT."
"But I was in the middle of an important conversation and -"
"I can handle that - on my mobile. Mrs Saunders, wasn't it? I'm calling her now. There's a sandwich for you in that carrier bag." It's my bloody sandwich, actually, but this seems a small price to pay. I sincerely hope he chokes on it.
"Take him the papers, and keep him talking," I hiss at Greg. "Emergency."
Honestly, it takes me ages to calm poor Mrs Saunders. How can someone as apparently well-meaning as The Boss be so incredibly crass? How the hell can he lack the imagination to understand what she must be going through? I can't even bear to contemplate how I would feel if it were Connie or Josh. God forbid, touch wood, and anything else that can be done to ward off such a terrible situation.
It turns out Emma's latest attempt took place while she was supposed to be being kept under special observation, so someone took their eye off the bloody ball, didn't they? For God's sake. I am furiously angry and depressed for the rest of the day. I sometimes wonder if my world view would be different if my job didn't involve regularly hearing about so much pain and misery.
Imagine being an event planner, or a play specialist - or doing any job that didn't involve dealing with people who are suffering and in distress. It would be even better if it could also avoid those who are just totally unreasonable, professional victims or neurotic whingers, come to think of it. Some days I can't envisage a wider world out there where people may actually be having a good time or are at least content with their lives. It's a good thing that neither Miss Chambers or Mr Beales phone today, as I might well have done a Steven Slater and deployed the emergency chute, after telling them what I really think of them. Though a dose of harsh reality would probably do those two a power of good - unlike Mrs Saunders.
Even when they're healthy, rich and successful, it doesn't seem to make people happy. Johnny's as miserable as sin since I said I wouldn't meet him at Heathrow. He sends me five emails today. In the fourth one, he says he feels like he did before we "met" again via Friends Reunited - old, jaded, and as if the spark is missing from his life. Ironic, seeing as he's in Moscow, where sparks are probably the last thing you'd want.
I do know what he means, though. I am feeling as if my fire has gone out again, since I decided not to meet him, and to try to damp the situation down. Life seems to have slid seamlessly back into its rut, where I wander through my life apparently unseen and unnoticed, while everyone else - including my bloody Dad - is living it up. Not that that makes any difference, as I still can't think of a good reason to go to London during Recess, so I tell Johnny that there's nothing I can do about it. His fifth email arrives just before I leave work. It says,
"Right, woman - I can't stand this any longer. If you can't get away, I shall come to you."
Good God. An International Director of a Global Oil Company, willing to cross half the world to the dot on the map that is Northwick, just to see me? Well, willing to cross most of Europe, anyway. That's still pretty impressive, given that I sometimes doubt whether Max would even bother to cross the road for the pleasure of my company.
I feel a bit dizzy and overwhelmed - though I suppose that might just be due to the chronic hyperventilation that having to cope with Andrew on a daily basis always induces. What the hell - I shall buy a copy of Glamour magazine on my way home. Sod Woman and Home. Maybe glamour's not as irrelevant to my life as I've always thought.
Friday, 2 July 2010
Ideology, Embarrassment & Compulsive Lying.
I'm starting to think it may be a good thing that long-serving MPs become so disconnected from their constituents. How else would they retain any certainty about their own political ideology? The more I hear and investigate constituents' real life stories, the more confused I get. It's like trying to work out the guilty party during one of Josh and Connie's arguments. Hopeless.
Mrs Hetherington attends today's surgery. She's at university as a mature student, has teenage children like me (poor woman), and had previously worked full-time for more than twenty years. She's incandescent with fury, having discovered that she won't be entitled to sign on during her college vacation, if she's unable to find a summer job. Her husband's self-employed and his business is collapsing. The Boss nods sympathetically as he tries to think of a way to blame this on the coalition. Then she hits him with it.
"There's a single parent on my course who's allowed to sign on during vacations," she says.
"Ah, well, obviously someone has to care for her children, and she does only have one income," says The Boss, looking relieved.
"Benefits, not income," says Mrs H. "And her daughter is fifteen."
"Um," says The Boss and looks helplessly at me.
I'm in no mood to help out and, anyway, I want to hear his answer.
He says, "Ah."
"And she has never worked a day in her life," says Mrs H. "Whereas I've been paying tax ever since I left school. Explain that!"
The Boss looks relieved. There's a Party line on this one.
"But surely you'd agree that it's in everyone's interests for single parents to be encouraged to train and find employment, wouldn't you?" he says.
"No," says Mrs H. "Be bloody nice if you politicians encouraged people to work and to stay married for a change."
The Boss has no answer to this. Nor do I, though at least there won't be any letters to write on the back of this particular appointment. No idea to whom I'd address Mrs H's enquiry, or how I'd word it. The Boss takes his embarrassment out on me.
"You were no help, no bloody help at all," he says, as Mrs H takes her leave.
"Well, I don't know what I think about it," I say. "Do you?"
"She's a bigot," says The Boss, with no trace of irony.
In the afternoon, I email Johnny the best of the photos I finally managed to take last night by virtue of waiting 'til everyone had gone to bed, and then locking myself in the bathroom. I had to make convincing farting noises while I twisted around like a lunatic to make sure the loo wasn't in shot. Whole thing took ages, and it was after 4:00am when I finally got to bed. How have I come to this? Of course, I change my mind and want to retrieve the email as soon as I've sent it, and then spend the rest of the afternoon panicking, especially when I get an Out of Office reply from Johnny. Bet his bloody PA is showing my arse to everyone at the Global Oil Company water cooler right this minute.
Then there's another call from Josh's school. For Godsake. Josh has apparently "failed to control his skateboard,"which has flown up into the air and smashed the window of the Deputy Head's office. Mr Thumb says that he had intended to confiscate the skateboard for a week, but has now changed his mind.
"Why?" I ask. Josh would be much safer minus that damned thing. His teeth looked perfectly normal until he took up skateboarding, and I'm sure he was more reasonable before all the blows to the head.
"The championship," says Mr Thumb.
"Pardon?" I have no idea what he's talking about.
"Well, Josh was saying that he's in the National Skateboarding Championships this weekend, so I felt it would be only right to delay his punishment until next week."
What? Josh can't stay upright on that damned thing for more than 20 seconds, without a catastrophe. No way is he capable of participating in a National Championship. Unless it's the Unintentional Comedy on a Skateboard Championship - which I don't think exists, though it certainly should.
"Don't you agree?" says Mr Thumb.
I am still barely capable of speech, so I just mumble a pathetic 'Thank you," and hang up. How the hell did Max and I raise a compulsive liar? And why didn't I expose Josh's dishonesty to teach him a lesson? This abdication of parental responsibility and discipline is probably how serial killers are made, and certainly gang lords.
There's finally some good news when I get home. Connie's got the IT job! She's so excited, particularly at the thought of flexi-time, for some unknown reason. Max feigns enthusiasm pretty well, but later tells me that his boss warned of further branch closures this morning. God knows how we'd manage on just my pathetic income. We'd probably have to separate to survive. I'll have to ask The Boss what he suggests.
Mrs Hetherington attends today's surgery. She's at university as a mature student, has teenage children like me (poor woman), and had previously worked full-time for more than twenty years. She's incandescent with fury, having discovered that she won't be entitled to sign on during her college vacation, if she's unable to find a summer job. Her husband's self-employed and his business is collapsing. The Boss nods sympathetically as he tries to think of a way to blame this on the coalition. Then she hits him with it.
"There's a single parent on my course who's allowed to sign on during vacations," she says.
"Ah, well, obviously someone has to care for her children, and she does only have one income," says The Boss, looking relieved.
"Benefits, not income," says Mrs H. "And her daughter is fifteen."
"Um," says The Boss and looks helplessly at me.
I'm in no mood to help out and, anyway, I want to hear his answer.
He says, "Ah."
"And she has never worked a day in her life," says Mrs H. "Whereas I've been paying tax ever since I left school. Explain that!"
The Boss looks relieved. There's a Party line on this one.
"But surely you'd agree that it's in everyone's interests for single parents to be encouraged to train and find employment, wouldn't you?" he says.
"No," says Mrs H. "Be bloody nice if you politicians encouraged people to work and to stay married for a change."
The Boss has no answer to this. Nor do I, though at least there won't be any letters to write on the back of this particular appointment. No idea to whom I'd address Mrs H's enquiry, or how I'd word it. The Boss takes his embarrassment out on me.
"You were no help, no bloody help at all," he says, as Mrs H takes her leave.
"Well, I don't know what I think about it," I say. "Do you?"
"She's a bigot," says The Boss, with no trace of irony.
In the afternoon, I email Johnny the best of the photos I finally managed to take last night by virtue of waiting 'til everyone had gone to bed, and then locking myself in the bathroom. I had to make convincing farting noises while I twisted around like a lunatic to make sure the loo wasn't in shot. Whole thing took ages, and it was after 4:00am when I finally got to bed. How have I come to this? Of course, I change my mind and want to retrieve the email as soon as I've sent it, and then spend the rest of the afternoon panicking, especially when I get an Out of Office reply from Johnny. Bet his bloody PA is showing my arse to everyone at the Global Oil Company water cooler right this minute.
Then there's another call from Josh's school. For Godsake. Josh has apparently "failed to control his skateboard,"which has flown up into the air and smashed the window of the Deputy Head's office. Mr Thumb says that he had intended to confiscate the skateboard for a week, but has now changed his mind.
"Why?" I ask. Josh would be much safer minus that damned thing. His teeth looked perfectly normal until he took up skateboarding, and I'm sure he was more reasonable before all the blows to the head.
"The championship," says Mr Thumb.
"Pardon?" I have no idea what he's talking about.
"Well, Josh was saying that he's in the National Skateboarding Championships this weekend, so I felt it would be only right to delay his punishment until next week."
What? Josh can't stay upright on that damned thing for more than 20 seconds, without a catastrophe. No way is he capable of participating in a National Championship. Unless it's the Unintentional Comedy on a Skateboard Championship - which I don't think exists, though it certainly should.
"Don't you agree?" says Mr Thumb.
I am still barely capable of speech, so I just mumble a pathetic 'Thank you," and hang up. How the hell did Max and I raise a compulsive liar? And why didn't I expose Josh's dishonesty to teach him a lesson? This abdication of parental responsibility and discipline is probably how serial killers are made, and certainly gang lords.
There's finally some good news when I get home. Connie's got the IT job! She's so excited, particularly at the thought of flexi-time, for some unknown reason. Max feigns enthusiasm pretty well, but later tells me that his boss warned of further branch closures this morning. God knows how we'd manage on just my pathetic income. We'd probably have to separate to survive. I'll have to ask The Boss what he suggests.
Monday, 31 May 2010
Shopping for Others, Wedding Nights and Internet Stalkers
In the evening, I decide I want to be a teenager again. They have so much more fun, despite the superficial angst. It's not just the constant sex and the taut bodies, but the things they think of to do - and have the nerve to actually carry out.
Josh and his mates tag along with Max and I when we go food shopping. I do wonder at this sudden and uncharacteristic interest in participating in such a mundane task, but soon all becomes clear. It turns out that the boys are intent upon "Shopping for Others."
Max and I watch in disbelief as they spend an hour or so happily putting things into the shopping trolleys of complete strangers when the latter aren't looking. We don't know what to do with ourselves when an elderly spinster heads for the checkouts with twenty packets of condoms and some Durex Play gel in hers, and a butch body-builder type looks puzzled at finding lipstick, eye shadow and tampons amidst his other purchases.
The most stressful moment comes when I notice a large leg of pork being covertly added to the contents of a trolley belonging to a hijab-clad middle-aged woman, at which point Max decides enough is enough and calls a halt. I think he secretly enjoys the whole experience as much as me, though...
Much later, I get another email from Johnny International Director of a Global Oil Company Hunter. He's been away, globetrotting across Eastern Europe again.
Johnny says he hates hotel rooms, and wonders whether I do too. I've only ever stayed in a posh hotel once and that was on my wedding night - when my Dad accompanied Max and I upstairs to our room after the reception, and waltzed inside when we carelessly opened the door a little too wide.
Then he proceeded to order blithely from room service while asking our advice on how to "manage Dinah and her tantrums". Max and I finally got rid of him at 3:00am, so we weren't even earning gold stars on our wedding night. I probably should have seen that as a portent.
The next morning was no better. At 9:00am, Max's brother Richard turned up, uninvited, to announce that we needed to hurry up and go down to the bar, as the whole Bennett family were on their way to the hotel to have a drink with us. Then Richard ate my pre-ordered breakfast-in-bed while I struggled to get dressed in the relative privacy of the bathroom.
It's not as if I even get to stay in decent hotels because of work. At *conference, we're lucky to get booked into a broom cupboard so I have no experience of the high-life at all, which does rather lessen any sympathy I might feel for Johnny.
To make matters worse, he also wants to know what I look like now, and whether I still have "that amazing hair and those incredible legs." I doubt it, but am more worried by the fact that I still can't even remember who he is, while he seems to recall me in microscopic detail.
I hope he's not some crazed internet stalker or - worse - a constituent playing mind games. That'd be just my luck. Where the hell have I put my old diaries?
*conference - the Labour Party Conference/Bunfight/Scene of Some of The Boss's worst social faux-pas.
Josh and his mates tag along with Max and I when we go food shopping. I do wonder at this sudden and uncharacteristic interest in participating in such a mundane task, but soon all becomes clear. It turns out that the boys are intent upon "Shopping for Others."
Max and I watch in disbelief as they spend an hour or so happily putting things into the shopping trolleys of complete strangers when the latter aren't looking. We don't know what to do with ourselves when an elderly spinster heads for the checkouts with twenty packets of condoms and some Durex Play gel in hers, and a butch body-builder type looks puzzled at finding lipstick, eye shadow and tampons amidst his other purchases.
The most stressful moment comes when I notice a large leg of pork being covertly added to the contents of a trolley belonging to a hijab-clad middle-aged woman, at which point Max decides enough is enough and calls a halt. I think he secretly enjoys the whole experience as much as me, though...
Much later, I get another email from Johnny International Director of a Global Oil Company Hunter. He's been away, globetrotting across Eastern Europe again.
Johnny says he hates hotel rooms, and wonders whether I do too. I've only ever stayed in a posh hotel once and that was on my wedding night - when my Dad accompanied Max and I upstairs to our room after the reception, and waltzed inside when we carelessly opened the door a little too wide.
Then he proceeded to order blithely from room service while asking our advice on how to "manage Dinah and her tantrums". Max and I finally got rid of him at 3:00am, so we weren't even earning gold stars on our wedding night. I probably should have seen that as a portent.
The next morning was no better. At 9:00am, Max's brother Richard turned up, uninvited, to announce that we needed to hurry up and go down to the bar, as the whole Bennett family were on their way to the hotel to have a drink with us. Then Richard ate my pre-ordered breakfast-in-bed while I struggled to get dressed in the relative privacy of the bathroom.
It's not as if I even get to stay in decent hotels because of work. At *conference, we're lucky to get booked into a broom cupboard so I have no experience of the high-life at all, which does rather lessen any sympathy I might feel for Johnny.
To make matters worse, he also wants to know what I look like now, and whether I still have "that amazing hair and those incredible legs." I doubt it, but am more worried by the fact that I still can't even remember who he is, while he seems to recall me in microscopic detail.
I hope he's not some crazed internet stalker or - worse - a constituent playing mind games. That'd be just my luck. Where the hell have I put my old diaries?
*conference - the Labour Party Conference/Bunfight/Scene of Some of The Boss's worst social faux-pas.
Wednesday, 26 May 2010
The Gap Between Rich And Poor, Or The Difference Between Me And Johnny Hunter's Wife
I'm almost too depressed to write. Primark has no vacancies. And all that discount out of the window as well! So it looks as if I'm stuck with The Boss for the foreseeable future, or at least until IPSA's cuts cost me my job.
To make things worse, Mr Beales writes in with yet another problem - the third one in the last ten days. One of his clients won't pay for her wedding photographs, and he encloses copies. I'm not surprised the poor woman won't pay: a number of the guests are headless, including the groom.
I am surprised by one new development, however - Greg and I have always thought that Mr Beales was a school photographer. He seemed well-suited for this, in that he most closely resembles a paedophile or, at best, a serial killer. (Greg says that all paedophiles are easily identified by the double bar across the bridge of their metal-framed glasses.)
Anyway, whatever he is, I really can't be bothered with Mr Beales today, so I just dump his letter and photos into the otherwise-empty filing tray marked, Show to the Boss.
In the evening, I get another email from Johnny Hunter. A long one. His tone is very friendly, if a little boastful. He's only an International Director for a global oil company! Married, with two children - much younger than mine, which is presumably why he and his wife have managed to have rather more impressive careers than I have.
Johnny goes on to say that it is "the help" that enables him and his wife to keep flying across the globe with their demanding jobs, by ensuring that their children are well-cared for at the same time. He also says that he can't afford to downsize to spend more time with his family as "you know what school fees are like."
I am a gutless hypocrite. I do not say in my reply that of course I do not know, because I am politically (and financially) opposed to private schools; work for a Labour MP, and have put both my kids through the wringer of the state school system because it teaches them important life skills. (Well, that's what Max and I always tell our posh friends anyway - we don't mention Josh's gang lord credentials.)
No, in response to Johnny, I just wimp out and sympathise with his difficulty, as if I understand it all too well. What on earth is wrong with me? I have about as much idea of what his life is like, as he probably has of mine. And I bet his wife doesn't shop in Primark.
I still can't remember what he looks like, but am hoping he was that nice one with the dark hair and really blue eyes who used to catch the school bus with me. I must check whether he wears glasses, though. You can't be too careful in this day and age.
To make things worse, Mr Beales writes in with yet another problem - the third one in the last ten days. One of his clients won't pay for her wedding photographs, and he encloses copies. I'm not surprised the poor woman won't pay: a number of the guests are headless, including the groom.
I am surprised by one new development, however - Greg and I have always thought that Mr Beales was a school photographer. He seemed well-suited for this, in that he most closely resembles a paedophile or, at best, a serial killer. (Greg says that all paedophiles are easily identified by the double bar across the bridge of their metal-framed glasses.)
Anyway, whatever he is, I really can't be bothered with Mr Beales today, so I just dump his letter and photos into the otherwise-empty filing tray marked, Show to the Boss.
In the evening, I get another email from Johnny Hunter. A long one. His tone is very friendly, if a little boastful. He's only an International Director for a global oil company! Married, with two children - much younger than mine, which is presumably why he and his wife have managed to have rather more impressive careers than I have.
Johnny goes on to say that it is "the help" that enables him and his wife to keep flying across the globe with their demanding jobs, by ensuring that their children are well-cared for at the same time. He also says that he can't afford to downsize to spend more time with his family as "you know what school fees are like."
I am a gutless hypocrite. I do not say in my reply that of course I do not know, because I am politically (and financially) opposed to private schools; work for a Labour MP, and have put both my kids through the wringer of the state school system because it teaches them important life skills. (Well, that's what Max and I always tell our posh friends anyway - we don't mention Josh's gang lord credentials.)
No, in response to Johnny, I just wimp out and sympathise with his difficulty, as if I understand it all too well. What on earth is wrong with me? I have about as much idea of what his life is like, as he probably has of mine. And I bet his wife doesn't shop in Primark.
I still can't remember what he looks like, but am hoping he was that nice one with the dark hair and really blue eyes who used to catch the school bus with me. I must check whether he wears glasses, though. You can't be too careful in this day and age.
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