Honestly, can you believe it? Just when I should have been waking up next to Johnny in a luxury hotel suite after a night full of (hopefully) mad passion, here I am listening to Reg Beales bloody moaning instead.
"So, they're definitely out to get me now," he says. "Just like my brother."
I sigh, and count to ten - twice - before I reply. Just to be on the safe side.
"I think you'll find the Police and the RSPCA are two different organisations," I say. "And the Met* aren't known for taking an interest in horses that are being mis-treated. Not even when the horse is in London - which yours isn't."
"Well, they must have been following me to spot the stupid animal, though, mustn't they?" says Reg. "So our Edmund's got a point. These bloody busybodies should be made to wear high-visibility jackets at all times."
I pass Greg a note which reads:
"Play that fire alarm sound on your phone. Quick!"
Then I turn my attention back to Reg Beales.
"A horse and cart on the main road into Northwick is pretty difficult to ignore," I say. "I'm quite surprised the traffic police didn't have something to say about it as well. If I were you, I'd just apologise and say you've learned your lesson when you go to court - though, to be honest, I doubt you'll get the horse back, whatever you do."
"But how am I supposed to pull the cart without one?" says Reg, as Greg passes me his phone and a siren rings out.
"Got to go," I say. "The fire alarm's going off. 'Bye!"
This triumph of ingenuity cheers me up no end, until I spot Vicky sitting in the Oprah Room. She's filing her nails again, while looking disapprovingly at Greg and me.
"Find her something to do, for God's sake, Mol," says Greg, in a low voice. "It's like having MI5 in here with her watching everything we do or say. Or The News Of The World, anyway."
He's got a point, so I suggest to Vicky that there's a mountain of archiving to do, if she's not too busy.
"I've got to type a report up for Andy," she says. "So I can't do it this week. Sorry."
She doesn't sound it, but I give her the benefit of the doubt. People can surprise you - sometimes. Even when you've worked for an MP for far too long.
"Okay," I say. "But maybe you could make a start on it next week instead? It'd really help us out."
"Can't," says Vicky. "I won't be here."
I think Greg manages to mask his ecstatic - if slightly crazed - smile before Vicky notices, but I'm having trouble hiding my joy too. I can feel my lips twitching, unless I've suddenly developed a tic.
"Really?" I say. "Are you leaving us, then?"
"No," says Vicky. "I'm going to that conference with Andy. Didn't he tell you?"
"Shouldn't think he's told anyone," says Greg. "The Media would love it. MP Takes Young Intern To Luxury Hotel doesn't sound too good, does it?"
Not half as good as Oil Baron Takes MP's Possibly Middle-Aged Senior Caseworker To Luxury Hotel, that's for sure. And Saves Her From Lunatic Constituent Charged With Cruelty To His Horse, While He's At It.
I give up, I really do. Life's a bitch, and then you die.
*Met - Metropolitan Police. For some reason, Reg is now convinced that they are out to get him, despite all our attempts to convince him that they are far too busy at the moment.
Showing posts with label Oil Baron. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Oil Baron. Show all posts
Thursday, 27 January 2011
Monday, 24 January 2011
A Matter of Eggs And Death, And A Joke Turns Very Sour Indeed.
"Am I always right, or am I always right?" says Greg, as he walks into the office this morning.
"About what?" I say, though I'm not really paying attention.
I'm too busy trying to gauge whether the latest parcel sent by a local animal rights activist contains a bomb. (You wouldn't believe how many of them put their correct addresses on the packaging, though this is by no means a guarantee that the contents will prove to be innocuous.)
"Metal-framed glasses," says Greg. "Only ever worn by serial killers and paedophiles."
"Not always," I say, thinking of Johnny's eyewear and hoping Greg is wrong. "And anyway, you said they had to have a double bar across the nose to qualify. Now shut up for a minute - I'm trying to see if this makes a noise when I shake it."
Greg gives me a pitying look, then snatches the parcel from my hands, rushes to the doorway and says,
"Get under your desk!"
It says something about my state of mind that I do as he tells me, before realising how unwise this is. As I stand back up, I see Greg throw the parcel - overarm - as far as he can down the corridor, where Vicky trips over it as she exits the lift. She jumps, but only from surprise.
"Safe," says Greg, retrieving the package and tearing off the brown paper to reveal a video cassette. "Unlike people who wear those glasses. I knew that Tabak bloke had murdered Jo Yeates as soon as I saw his specs."
"You also knew that her landlord had done it when you saw his hair," I say. "So you'll forgive me if I don't always think you're right. Though thank God you were about that parcel. You could have blown the whole building up."
"That's because he's an idiot," says Vicky, as she pushes past Greg on her way to the Oprah Room. He sticks his tongue out at her as she slams the door, then lowers his voice and says,
"You'd already ripped the corner of the paper, Mol - so I could see the plastic casing before I threw it."
He winks, then volunteers to make the first round of coffee. Wonders will never cease, and I'm about to make a sarcastic remark to that effect when an email pops into my in-box. From Johnny, wanting to confirm when we're meeting on Wednesday, and whether I've booked my rail ticket to London yet.
"Oh, shit," I say. "Oh, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!"
"Expressive - but a bit repetitive," says Greg, putting a mug of coffee down on my desk. "Where's the thesaurus gone?"
"I told The Boss to take it with him," I say. "To find an alternative to saying he's had an 'interesting meeting' whenever he updates that wretched blog of his. Gave him the dictionary and a local map too - after he mis-spelled the names of half the parishes in his last post. And, anyway, shit is the only word that sums up what I've gone and done."
"Oh, shit," says Greg, when I've finished explaining that I've just realised that I don't have any money to get to London, or to pay for anything when I'm there. Which rather proves my point.
I bang my head on the desk several times, while Greg thinks aloud - which doesn't take long, and isn't very effective either.
"Well, Johnny's loaded," he says. "So just get him to pay for everything. He won't mind. He's maddened by lust, though God knows why. You look a mess."
"Thanks," I say. "And, anyway, I can't do that. What do you think I am?"
"Stupid," says Greg. "What's the point of having a so-called affair with an oil baron when you don't get any money out of it?"
"Or any sex," I say, before reverting to banging my head again. "Why aren't MPs' staff paid until the very last day of the bloody month?"
If I worked for Northwick Council, I'd have been paid days ago, and then this wouldn't have been such a problem. Except that actually it would, because Max has worked out we're not going to have any money even after we've both been paid. And the bank is hardly likely to lend me any, is it? Not when they've got all those bloody bonuses to pay.
"They like to make us suffer," says Greg. "And I'm broke 'til payday too, so I can't lend you any either - sorry, Mol. What are you going to do?"
"Lie," I say, because it's the only thing I can think of. "I shall have to tell Johnny I've been struck down with a mystery illness at the last minute. Or, rather, you'll have to do it for me. I'm terrible at lying."
Thank God Johnny has to come to the UK this week anyway. I'd feel even more awful about the whole thing if he was only flying over to see me but, as he isn't, I'm hoping he'll forgive me. Not that this is very likely if Greg doesn't get a grip.
He says he hasn't had this much fun in ages, and spends the next few hours drafting a series of ever more unlikely explanations, finally settling upon one in which I am to be hospitalised after opening a parcel bomb containing non-free range eggs.
"And the beauty of this idea is that you won't be able to communicate with Johnny until you're released," he says. "Because you will be deaf from the blast, and won't be able to text or type due to the fragments of eggshell that have lodged behind your eyeballs."
I look at him in amazement, which he mis-reads as approval. (Which often happens with mad constituents, too.)
"This is where my expertise in horror films comes in useful," he says.
"Or your fondness for Wallace and Gromit," I say. "Sounds about as credible as A Matter of Loaf and Death."
Greg gives me a reproachful look.
"I thought you said it was," he says. "And beggars can't be choosers. Are we going with this idea or not?"
"No," I say. "Try and think of something a little more Gromit, and a little less Wallace. The man's a bumbling idiot."
Greg sighs, as I notice that the fax machine has jammed yet again, and run over to kick it back to life.
"You really should have more respect, Molly," he says. "Both for me, and for Wallace. He is our leader, after all."
I can't help laughing, but I stop as soon as I get an email from Johnny about events at Moscow's Domodedovo Airport.
"I only meant for you to get blown up, Mol," says Greg, who has gone a very funny shade of green.
I can't think of anything at all to say in response.
"About what?" I say, though I'm not really paying attention.
I'm too busy trying to gauge whether the latest parcel sent by a local animal rights activist contains a bomb. (You wouldn't believe how many of them put their correct addresses on the packaging, though this is by no means a guarantee that the contents will prove to be innocuous.)
"Metal-framed glasses," says Greg. "Only ever worn by serial killers and paedophiles."
"Not always," I say, thinking of Johnny's eyewear and hoping Greg is wrong. "And anyway, you said they had to have a double bar across the nose to qualify. Now shut up for a minute - I'm trying to see if this makes a noise when I shake it."
Greg gives me a pitying look, then snatches the parcel from my hands, rushes to the doorway and says,
"Get under your desk!"
It says something about my state of mind that I do as he tells me, before realising how unwise this is. As I stand back up, I see Greg throw the parcel - overarm - as far as he can down the corridor, where Vicky trips over it as she exits the lift. She jumps, but only from surprise.
"Safe," says Greg, retrieving the package and tearing off the brown paper to reveal a video cassette. "Unlike people who wear those glasses. I knew that Tabak bloke had murdered Jo Yeates as soon as I saw his specs."
"You also knew that her landlord had done it when you saw his hair," I say. "So you'll forgive me if I don't always think you're right. Though thank God you were about that parcel. You could have blown the whole building up."
"That's because he's an idiot," says Vicky, as she pushes past Greg on her way to the Oprah Room. He sticks his tongue out at her as she slams the door, then lowers his voice and says,
"You'd already ripped the corner of the paper, Mol - so I could see the plastic casing before I threw it."
He winks, then volunteers to make the first round of coffee. Wonders will never cease, and I'm about to make a sarcastic remark to that effect when an email pops into my in-box. From Johnny, wanting to confirm when we're meeting on Wednesday, and whether I've booked my rail ticket to London yet.
"Oh, shit," I say. "Oh, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!"
"Expressive - but a bit repetitive," says Greg, putting a mug of coffee down on my desk. "Where's the thesaurus gone?"
"I told The Boss to take it with him," I say. "To find an alternative to saying he's had an 'interesting meeting' whenever he updates that wretched blog of his. Gave him the dictionary and a local map too - after he mis-spelled the names of half the parishes in his last post. And, anyway, shit is the only word that sums up what I've gone and done."
"Oh, shit," says Greg, when I've finished explaining that I've just realised that I don't have any money to get to London, or to pay for anything when I'm there. Which rather proves my point.
I bang my head on the desk several times, while Greg thinks aloud - which doesn't take long, and isn't very effective either.
"Well, Johnny's loaded," he says. "So just get him to pay for everything. He won't mind. He's maddened by lust, though God knows why. You look a mess."
"Thanks," I say. "And, anyway, I can't do that. What do you think I am?"
"Stupid," says Greg. "What's the point of having a so-called affair with an oil baron when you don't get any money out of it?"
"Or any sex," I say, before reverting to banging my head again. "Why aren't MPs' staff paid until the very last day of the bloody month?"
If I worked for Northwick Council, I'd have been paid days ago, and then this wouldn't have been such a problem. Except that actually it would, because Max has worked out we're not going to have any money even after we've both been paid. And the bank is hardly likely to lend me any, is it? Not when they've got all those bloody bonuses to pay.
"They like to make us suffer," says Greg. "And I'm broke 'til payday too, so I can't lend you any either - sorry, Mol. What are you going to do?"
"Lie," I say, because it's the only thing I can think of. "I shall have to tell Johnny I've been struck down with a mystery illness at the last minute. Or, rather, you'll have to do it for me. I'm terrible at lying."
Thank God Johnny has to come to the UK this week anyway. I'd feel even more awful about the whole thing if he was only flying over to see me but, as he isn't, I'm hoping he'll forgive me. Not that this is very likely if Greg doesn't get a grip.
He says he hasn't had this much fun in ages, and spends the next few hours drafting a series of ever more unlikely explanations, finally settling upon one in which I am to be hospitalised after opening a parcel bomb containing non-free range eggs.
"And the beauty of this idea is that you won't be able to communicate with Johnny until you're released," he says. "Because you will be deaf from the blast, and won't be able to text or type due to the fragments of eggshell that have lodged behind your eyeballs."
I look at him in amazement, which he mis-reads as approval. (Which often happens with mad constituents, too.)
"This is where my expertise in horror films comes in useful," he says.
"Or your fondness for Wallace and Gromit," I say. "Sounds about as credible as A Matter of Loaf and Death."
Greg gives me a reproachful look.
"I thought you said it was," he says. "And beggars can't be choosers. Are we going with this idea or not?"
"No," I say. "Try and think of something a little more Gromit, and a little less Wallace. The man's a bumbling idiot."
Greg sighs, as I notice that the fax machine has jammed yet again, and run over to kick it back to life.
"You really should have more respect, Molly," he says. "Both for me, and for Wallace. He is our leader, after all."
I can't help laughing, but I stop as soon as I get an email from Johnny about events at Moscow's Domodedovo Airport.
"I only meant for you to get blown up, Mol," says Greg, who has gone a very funny shade of green.
I can't think of anything at all to say in response.
Friday, 10 September 2010
Changes in Perspective, or The Morning After The Night Before.
I wake to mad beeping from my mobile. A barrage of texts, all of them from Johnny.
"Good morning."
"I'm so sorry about last night."
"I can't stop thinking about you."
"When can we meet again?"
"I'm on the train. And wishing I wasn't."
Max looks a bit curious, so I tell him the texts are all from Orange.
"Bastards," he says. He's very familiar with Orange's relentless marketing, which seems to fill up his in-box as soon as he's managed to empty it. Or that's what he claims, anyway - whenever he tries to explain why he never receives my texts. Josh says it's worth all the hassle for the Orange Wednesday codes, but then he would, seeing as he's always the one who gets to use the damned things.
I can barely look at Max as I get ready and rush off to work. There's no time to give last night's debacle more than a cursory thought, which is probably a good thing. God knows why Johnny wants to repeat the experience. I'm not at all sure that I do.
"What the hell happened to you?" Greg says, as I walk into the office, five minutes late.
"Oh shit," I say. "I forgot to text you." Then I realise the significance of what Greg has said. "Oh my God, did you report me missing to the Police?"
"Um, no," says Greg. He fidgets a bit, and says, "Coffee?"
He's obviously forgotten that I am on coffee-making duty for the next two months in lieu of his having acted as my taxi service to Johnny's hotel last night. Then I realise why.
"Why didn't you? Weren't you worried about me?"
"Well, I would have been," says Greg. "But, after I went for a run, I fell asleep in front of the TV and didn't wake up until 8:00am. Few too many gins."
"Oh, for God's sake," I say. "I could have been dead."
"Don't be daft, Mol. If you can handle the nutters we get here, you can handle a bloody oil baron. Anyway, how was he?"
"How was who?" says The Boss. He has a snakelike ability to creep up on you. It's quite repulsive.
"Boris," says Greg. "We're guessing at what his next occupation will be."
Greg makes me do today's surgery by claiming to have an urgent doctor's appointment. Something to do with a suspected stress fracture, due to his "jogging injury." He only started jogging yesterday, so this seems a bit unlikely, especially as he says he only got to the end of his road before he had to give up and walk back home again. A severe stitch, apparently.
Anyway, the upshot of this is that now I have to do the surgery letters as well as finishing up my other casework - and all before I leave work today. I can't leave anything unfinished, not when I shall be on leave next week. Or nothing that it wouldn't be safe for Greg to handle alone, anyway - which represents most things. God knows what time I'll get home tonight - though this may be a good thing, as I still have no idea how I'm going to face Max.
When I finally lock up at 9:00pm, and start walking home, last night's events come flooding back. In their full ghastliness. I can't imagine why Johnny still sounds so keen to continue our affair. If you could even call it an affair, when all it has involved is two chaotic and ultimately very hazardous kisses, and some virtual sex.
Mind you, it has changed my perspective on hard man Vladimir Putin, though. If he's even half as short-sighted as Johnny, he'd be a piece of piss to deal with, if he started throwing his weight about. All you'd have to do would be to steal his glasses. Johnny doesn't seem at all powerful without his.
And Johnny isn't the only one who's acting out of character. Max is being very assertive when I get home. He's done almost all the packing, and informs me that we are not taking the laptop with us, as we are going to "spend quality time together" without distractions. He even wants me to leave my mobile behind, but I refuse to comply with this - not when I am leaving an incompetent ninja at home, with a sex-pest for a neighbour.
I write Josh a very long list enumerating the dire consequences that will arise should he be unwise enough to consider anything as stupid as a house party in our absence, and ask Mum to drop in daily to check that the house is still standing. And that Josh is still in one piece. Accidents will happen, as I know only too well after last night's shenanigans.
So now it's bedtime, and tomorrow I am off on "holiday." At least this might give me a bit of headspace to decide what on earth I am doing with my life. Though if the answer is turning into a bearded lady and growing back my hymen, I have no idea what the solution to that will be.
"Good morning."
"I'm so sorry about last night."
"I can't stop thinking about you."
"When can we meet again?"
"I'm on the train. And wishing I wasn't."
Max looks a bit curious, so I tell him the texts are all from Orange.
"Bastards," he says. He's very familiar with Orange's relentless marketing, which seems to fill up his in-box as soon as he's managed to empty it. Or that's what he claims, anyway - whenever he tries to explain why he never receives my texts. Josh says it's worth all the hassle for the Orange Wednesday codes, but then he would, seeing as he's always the one who gets to use the damned things.
I can barely look at Max as I get ready and rush off to work. There's no time to give last night's debacle more than a cursory thought, which is probably a good thing. God knows why Johnny wants to repeat the experience. I'm not at all sure that I do.
"What the hell happened to you?" Greg says, as I walk into the office, five minutes late.
"Oh shit," I say. "I forgot to text you." Then I realise the significance of what Greg has said. "Oh my God, did you report me missing to the Police?"
"Um, no," says Greg. He fidgets a bit, and says, "Coffee?"
He's obviously forgotten that I am on coffee-making duty for the next two months in lieu of his having acted as my taxi service to Johnny's hotel last night. Then I realise why.
"Why didn't you? Weren't you worried about me?"
"Well, I would have been," says Greg. "But, after I went for a run, I fell asleep in front of the TV and didn't wake up until 8:00am. Few too many gins."
"Oh, for God's sake," I say. "I could have been dead."
"Don't be daft, Mol. If you can handle the nutters we get here, you can handle a bloody oil baron. Anyway, how was he?"
"How was who?" says The Boss. He has a snakelike ability to creep up on you. It's quite repulsive.
"Boris," says Greg. "We're guessing at what his next occupation will be."
Greg makes me do today's surgery by claiming to have an urgent doctor's appointment. Something to do with a suspected stress fracture, due to his "jogging injury." He only started jogging yesterday, so this seems a bit unlikely, especially as he says he only got to the end of his road before he had to give up and walk back home again. A severe stitch, apparently.
Anyway, the upshot of this is that now I have to do the surgery letters as well as finishing up my other casework - and all before I leave work today. I can't leave anything unfinished, not when I shall be on leave next week. Or nothing that it wouldn't be safe for Greg to handle alone, anyway - which represents most things. God knows what time I'll get home tonight - though this may be a good thing, as I still have no idea how I'm going to face Max.
When I finally lock up at 9:00pm, and start walking home, last night's events come flooding back. In their full ghastliness. I can't imagine why Johnny still sounds so keen to continue our affair. If you could even call it an affair, when all it has involved is two chaotic and ultimately very hazardous kisses, and some virtual sex.
Mind you, it has changed my perspective on hard man Vladimir Putin, though. If he's even half as short-sighted as Johnny, he'd be a piece of piss to deal with, if he started throwing his weight about. All you'd have to do would be to steal his glasses. Johnny doesn't seem at all powerful without his.
And Johnny isn't the only one who's acting out of character. Max is being very assertive when I get home. He's done almost all the packing, and informs me that we are not taking the laptop with us, as we are going to "spend quality time together" without distractions. He even wants me to leave my mobile behind, but I refuse to comply with this - not when I am leaving an incompetent ninja at home, with a sex-pest for a neighbour.
I write Josh a very long list enumerating the dire consequences that will arise should he be unwise enough to consider anything as stupid as a house party in our absence, and ask Mum to drop in daily to check that the house is still standing. And that Josh is still in one piece. Accidents will happen, as I know only too well after last night's shenanigans.
So now it's bedtime, and tomorrow I am off on "holiday." At least this might give me a bit of headspace to decide what on earth I am doing with my life. Though if the answer is turning into a bearded lady and growing back my hymen, I have no idea what the solution to that will be.
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