Bloody hell, I've got to do something about Max's snoring. He woke me up God knows how many times last night. By 5:00am I was plotting to kill him, and I wasn't intending it to be quick and painless, either.
Then, this morning, he doesn't wake me up when I accidentally turn the alarm clock off, instead of hitting snooze - so I end up oversleeping and am ten minutes late for work. With the result that my membership of the Alarm Clock Britain club has been cancelled, according to Greg.
"Not funny," I say. "It's a bloody stupid phrase, and I don't want to be in Nick Clegg's club, anyway."
"Well, I don't know why he didn't stick with saying hard-working families," says Greg. "It was good enough for us, after all. Conveyed exactly the message we were trying to get across."
I look at him in disbelief.
"No, it didn't," I say. "Not after we'd overused it to the point where it even used to make me want to scream. Must have driven constituents bonkers, appearing in every paragraph of every bloody leaflet we sent out."
"Hmm," says Greg. "You might have a point there, actually. Some of them did mention it when we were campaigning in Easemount, but I wasn't sure if they were being sarcastic or not."
Given that you'd have been hard-pressed to find anyone with a job on that particular estate - even before the recession had really kicked in - I'm not surprised that its residents couldn't see the relevance of Labour's bloody mantra. Not that that excuses Nick Clegg's woeful alternative, though. Alarm Clock Britain is even worse.
Not only is it a pretty weak effort from a man with a background in PR, but I'm amazed by how out of touch he must be with the electorate, if he seriously thinks that the majority of them still use clocks rather than mobile phones to wake them up. Perhaps he should have set his to go off on New Year's Day instead of presumably sleeping though reports of the whole iPhone alarm debacle.
Anyway, I'm determined not to let the combination of lack of sleep and over-sleeping spoil today. It's the dawn of a new era, after all - although a certain Patrick Bateman lookalike doesn't seem to be aware of that. Am I the only person around here who keeps up with current affairs?
"What on earth's the matter with you?" says Greg, as he waits for me to finish shutting down my computer at closing time. "You haven't said 'fucksake' once - or kicked the filing cabinet. Not even when Mr Meeeeurghn phoned about his Argos vouchers."
"That's because I am both rejuvenated and filled with optimism," I say. "And the future suddenly seems a whole lot brighter."
Greg doesn't look at all convinced. In fact, he feels my forehead and makes me put my hands out straight in front of me to check if I've got the shakes. Of course I haven't, although my right hand does twitch a bit from the effort not to form it into a fist and thump him after what happens next.
"Mood swings?" he says. "Menopause finally hit?"
"No, it bloody hasn't," I say. "Though thank you for reminding me. And anyway, when that longed-for event does eventually occur, there'll still be life beyond it now - thanks to Miriam O'Reilly."
"Oh," says Greg. "Her."
It's safe to say that he doesn't seem as pleased as I am at the BBC being ticked off for ageism. I'm amazed that they got away without being found guilty of sexism, too, given how many female presenters get pensioned off from our TV screens twenty-five years before their male peers, but I suppose that's probably another fight for another time.
Anyway, Miriam's "landmark victory" is very exciting in its own right, so I can't really understand Greg's muted reaction. You'd think he'd be delighted, given how much time he spends banging on about equalities when he's campaigning, or trying to impress women whom he'd like to date.
"Why the sour face?" I say. "You should approve of the Tribunal's findings as a matter of principle. And because it might save you from having to work with Vicky instead of me. Hopefully The Boss'll be less likely to find a way to give my job to her after this."
"True," says Greg. "It's just that I love Countryfile - and Julia Bradbury is seriously hot."
I am saddened to report that it seems that some forms of hot are more desirable than others. Those followed by the word "flush" still being akin to the kiss of death.
Showing posts with label Patrick Bateman. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Patrick Bateman. Show all posts
Wednesday, 12 January 2011
Monday, 5 July 2010
It's Just Not Cricket - An Object Lesson In The Hazards of Unsportsmanlike Behaviour.
I seem to be surrounded by compulsive liars. All male, apart from Miss Chambers. What are the odds that Johnny isn't another of them? The new website is almost finished, and the web designer asks for a copy of The Boss' CV for inclusion. Greg finally finds a dog-eared old copy under a pile of photos of Andrew, all dreadful, despite the fact that he had all his hair in some of the earlier ones. Greg decides to read it aloud, as neither he nor I can ever remember actually seeing it before. I think the CV was put together when The Boss was the PPC* for East Northwick, so it was probably typed by Joan or someone else in the Labour Party.
Buried at the bottom of page two is the fact that The Boss used to play cricket semi-professionally. For a fairly well-known team based in his home town. I don't pay much attention at first, as I am otherwise occupied in re-reading Johnny's email from last night. Anyway, The Boss is a sports fanatic and most of his jollies - sorry, fact finding trips abroad - take place at exactly the same time as major sporting fixtures. But Greg is suspicious by nature. Before I know it, I hear him say,
"Just wondered if you could confirm the dates that Andrew Sinclair played for the team?"
Now what the hell is he doing? I leave my office and stand in the doorway to Greg's, raising my eyebrows in enquiry. Greg waves me away, and swivels his chair so that his back is facing me.
"Are you sure?" he says. There is a pause, then he continues, "You're positive there's no mistake?"
He gestures furiously at me to approach his desk. I wish he'd make his bloody mind up, and am about to say so, when he slams the phone down and punches the air. He looks even more like Patrick Bateman when triumphant.
"He's such a tosser sometimes," he says.
"Who?"
"Our lord and master, the great Andrew Sinclair, keeper of the Socialist flame and all-round good egg. That was the Secretary of the Cricket Club," Greg says, as if that makes everything crystal clear.
"And?"
"And they have never - ever - heard of Andrew Sinclair!"
"What?" And I thought all my illusions had already been shattered. "You mean -"
"That's exactly what I mean, Molly. His CV is bullshit. He never played for the team. Probably never did half the stuff on here." Greg screws up the CV and lobs it into the bin.
I don't know what to say. I return to my desk, and delete the email I had started to draft in reply to Johnny's. Suddenly I don't feel like flirting with him, when all I know about him is what he's told me himself.
"A drinkyboo at lunchtime?" says Greg. I nod. Vigorously.
After lunch - one G&T for me, three for Greg - Greg insists we pop into W H Smith. He buys a large, red box file and some new labels, and pays cash. When I point out that we already have folders and labels at the office, he says that his purchase is for "personal use."
When we get back to the office, Greg retrieves the balled-up CV from the bin, smooths it out as best he can, then shoves it into the new folder. He winks as he does so. The rest of the afternoon passes rather uneventfully, allowing Greg and I to clear all the post and emails from the weekend - I even get time to delete some of the vast amount of spam that has arrived in my inbox since Friday. Miss Chambers rings, but only once - to complain about a letter she has received from the local council telling her that their staff have been instructed not to take her phone calls any longer, and to insist that she writes in with her complaints instead. Council staff's hearing is obviously more important than mine.
When I leave my office to go home, I spot Greg, who is precariously balanced in the depths of the archive cupboard, his feet straddling two high shelves. There is a certain amount of wobbling going on, which reminds me of Josh and makes me laugh for the first time today.
"Give me a hand, Molly," he says. "Pass me that new box file, will you?"
I pick it up from his desk. It now bears the label, "Staff Insurance Policy."
What on earth are we becoming?
*PPC Prospective Parliamentary Candidate - as The Boss was, aeons ago before he became complacent.
Buried at the bottom of page two is the fact that The Boss used to play cricket semi-professionally. For a fairly well-known team based in his home town. I don't pay much attention at first, as I am otherwise occupied in re-reading Johnny's email from last night. Anyway, The Boss is a sports fanatic and most of his jollies - sorry, fact finding trips abroad - take place at exactly the same time as major sporting fixtures. But Greg is suspicious by nature. Before I know it, I hear him say,
"Just wondered if you could confirm the dates that Andrew Sinclair played for the team?"
Now what the hell is he doing? I leave my office and stand in the doorway to Greg's, raising my eyebrows in enquiry. Greg waves me away, and swivels his chair so that his back is facing me.
"Are you sure?" he says. There is a pause, then he continues, "You're positive there's no mistake?"
He gestures furiously at me to approach his desk. I wish he'd make his bloody mind up, and am about to say so, when he slams the phone down and punches the air. He looks even more like Patrick Bateman when triumphant.
"He's such a tosser sometimes," he says.
"Who?"
"Our lord and master, the great Andrew Sinclair, keeper of the Socialist flame and all-round good egg. That was the Secretary of the Cricket Club," Greg says, as if that makes everything crystal clear.
"And?"
"And they have never - ever - heard of Andrew Sinclair!"
"What?" And I thought all my illusions had already been shattered. "You mean -"
"That's exactly what I mean, Molly. His CV is bullshit. He never played for the team. Probably never did half the stuff on here." Greg screws up the CV and lobs it into the bin.
I don't know what to say. I return to my desk, and delete the email I had started to draft in reply to Johnny's. Suddenly I don't feel like flirting with him, when all I know about him is what he's told me himself.
"A drinkyboo at lunchtime?" says Greg. I nod. Vigorously.
After lunch - one G&T for me, three for Greg - Greg insists we pop into W H Smith. He buys a large, red box file and some new labels, and pays cash. When I point out that we already have folders and labels at the office, he says that his purchase is for "personal use."
When we get back to the office, Greg retrieves the balled-up CV from the bin, smooths it out as best he can, then shoves it into the new folder. He winks as he does so. The rest of the afternoon passes rather uneventfully, allowing Greg and I to clear all the post and emails from the weekend - I even get time to delete some of the vast amount of spam that has arrived in my inbox since Friday. Miss Chambers rings, but only once - to complain about a letter she has received from the local council telling her that their staff have been instructed not to take her phone calls any longer, and to insist that she writes in with her complaints instead. Council staff's hearing is obviously more important than mine.
When I leave my office to go home, I spot Greg, who is precariously balanced in the depths of the archive cupboard, his feet straddling two high shelves. There is a certain amount of wobbling going on, which reminds me of Josh and makes me laugh for the first time today.
"Give me a hand, Molly," he says. "Pass me that new box file, will you?"
I pick it up from his desk. It now bears the label, "Staff Insurance Policy."
What on earth are we becoming?
*PPC Prospective Parliamentary Candidate - as The Boss was, aeons ago before he became complacent.
Monday, 21 June 2010
Disturbing Resemblances, Yachting Directors of Global Oil Companies, and Uncharacteristic Empathy.
God, why do I look so different in photographs to how I imagine I look? The Boss' website is being updated, to allow him to blog - asking for trouble - and I have to have a new photo taken. The result makes me look like Mr Burns in The Simpsons. When did I become a hunchback? Charles Laughton had nothing on me. I blame it on the weird position I have to adopt while talking on the phone to Miss Chambers and trying to preserve an ear-protecting distance from the receiver. Last night's misguided attempt at pole-dancing didn't help my posture much either, but what's a girl to do when her husband and son spend five hours in a lap dancing club on Father's Day? (Max claims they only went to the pub and that Josh is winding me up, but he looks suspiciously cheerful this morning.)
My photo could be worse, though - Greg looks exactly like Patrick Bateman in American Psycho in his, which may well be scarily accurate. He says he thinks he looks "damned attractive" and will scare off lunatics, so I can't persuade him to change it, but I'm not letting mine go anywhere except into the virtual trash. Am going to suggest the web designer uses the EMO-style photo that I sent to Johnny Hunter instead. The constituents probably won't notice that I have my eyes shut, or will think I'm wincing with empathy for their plights.
Actually, I am feeling rather uncharacteristically empathetic today. Anti-Social Behaviour is the order of most of the day's telephone calls. Such an idiotic term, which doesn't at all reflect the utter misery that is wreaked on so many by so few. If there's one thing I blame the Labour Government for, it was their complete inability to call a spade a spade. ASB sounds like a toddler tantrum, which drastically understates the case if our constituents are anything to go by. Whole estates terrorised and, even if we eventually get a result for distraught residents by getting a nightmare family evicted, it's only a matter of time until their new neighbours contact us, equally desperate.
Whenever the subject comes up at at dinner parties - which is pretty rare anyway - our friends look at me as if I'm making up examples for the sake of entertainment. East Northwick might as well be A Tale of Two Cities, for all the awareness of the underclass that those who live in its richer parishes have. When I mentioned the horse and the burnt-out cars in the front garden of Steve Ellington's place, David said, "Oh Molly, you are funny." He should have seen Edmund Beales' bloody Doberman. Bet there were three pit-bulls inside that house as well - Greg and I escaped by the skin of our teeth. I didn't even recall Mr Beales' shotgun licence until afterwards, so I suppose things could have been a whole lot worse.
Anyway, I'm getting sidetracked, which is what empathy does to the brain. You can't afford too much of it in my job but, getting back to ASB, there seems to be no meaningful deterrent at all. If the nightmare neighbours have children, they'll be re-housed straightaway even if they are evicted - to protect their children. What's even more depressing is how so many of the Council's Housing Officers seem to take the view that the desperate, reasonable residents are simply "moaning minnies." I'd find this rather less irritating if almost everyone who worked in the Housing Department didn't live miles away in rural bliss, as evidenced by their complete inability to get to work at the first hint of snow.
Greg is still determined that we finish what we started with our DIY CRB checks, despite the Beales Dog Debacle. I have agreed to think about it, mainly because the new door is the only security improvement The Boss has approved. This is a bit rich, when you consider that even his favourite drinking den in Millbank has better security than we do. Last time I went to meet him there - ostensibly to participate in interviewing Carlotta LongLegs - I was overcome by claustrophobia when I had to step inside one of those glass tube things, which seemed a horribly snug fit. Then I freaked out because I thought it was never going to open again. Considering how tiny I am, God knows how they vet any fat terror suspects. I'm probably not allowed to say "fat" either.
Just before I leave work for the day, Johnny sends me another email asking if I'm not talking to him. He's apparently been back in the UK for the weekend, on a yachting trip, and says it's a shame I didn't reply to his last message as we could have arranged to meet up. I obviously should have paid more attention to those reports about Tony Hayward on his yacht. (What kind of man calls his yacht Bob, for Godsake?) Maybe I'd have spotted a Putin lookalike hauling the mainstay, or whatever you do on a yacht - apart from falling mysteriously over the side when a pensions scandal threatens, of course. Obviously Johnny's earlier email suggesting a massage was directed at me. I'd tell him where to get off, if I didn't really need a massage to alleviate the pain in my neck caused by trying to spin round the spare curtain pole last night.
My photo could be worse, though - Greg looks exactly like Patrick Bateman in American Psycho in his, which may well be scarily accurate. He says he thinks he looks "damned attractive" and will scare off lunatics, so I can't persuade him to change it, but I'm not letting mine go anywhere except into the virtual trash. Am going to suggest the web designer uses the EMO-style photo that I sent to Johnny Hunter instead. The constituents probably won't notice that I have my eyes shut, or will think I'm wincing with empathy for their plights.
Actually, I am feeling rather uncharacteristically empathetic today. Anti-Social Behaviour is the order of most of the day's telephone calls. Such an idiotic term, which doesn't at all reflect the utter misery that is wreaked on so many by so few. If there's one thing I blame the Labour Government for, it was their complete inability to call a spade a spade. ASB sounds like a toddler tantrum, which drastically understates the case if our constituents are anything to go by. Whole estates terrorised and, even if we eventually get a result for distraught residents by getting a nightmare family evicted, it's only a matter of time until their new neighbours contact us, equally desperate.
Whenever the subject comes up at at dinner parties - which is pretty rare anyway - our friends look at me as if I'm making up examples for the sake of entertainment. East Northwick might as well be A Tale of Two Cities, for all the awareness of the underclass that those who live in its richer parishes have. When I mentioned the horse and the burnt-out cars in the front garden of Steve Ellington's place, David said, "Oh Molly, you are funny." He should have seen Edmund Beales' bloody Doberman. Bet there were three pit-bulls inside that house as well - Greg and I escaped by the skin of our teeth. I didn't even recall Mr Beales' shotgun licence until afterwards, so I suppose things could have been a whole lot worse.
Anyway, I'm getting sidetracked, which is what empathy does to the brain. You can't afford too much of it in my job but, getting back to ASB, there seems to be no meaningful deterrent at all. If the nightmare neighbours have children, they'll be re-housed straightaway even if they are evicted - to protect their children. What's even more depressing is how so many of the Council's Housing Officers seem to take the view that the desperate, reasonable residents are simply "moaning minnies." I'd find this rather less irritating if almost everyone who worked in the Housing Department didn't live miles away in rural bliss, as evidenced by their complete inability to get to work at the first hint of snow.
Greg is still determined that we finish what we started with our DIY CRB checks, despite the Beales Dog Debacle. I have agreed to think about it, mainly because the new door is the only security improvement The Boss has approved. This is a bit rich, when you consider that even his favourite drinking den in Millbank has better security than we do. Last time I went to meet him there - ostensibly to participate in interviewing Carlotta LongLegs - I was overcome by claustrophobia when I had to step inside one of those glass tube things, which seemed a horribly snug fit. Then I freaked out because I thought it was never going to open again. Considering how tiny I am, God knows how they vet any fat terror suspects. I'm probably not allowed to say "fat" either.
Just before I leave work for the day, Johnny sends me another email asking if I'm not talking to him. He's apparently been back in the UK for the weekend, on a yachting trip, and says it's a shame I didn't reply to his last message as we could have arranged to meet up. I obviously should have paid more attention to those reports about Tony Hayward on his yacht. (What kind of man calls his yacht Bob, for Godsake?) Maybe I'd have spotted a Putin lookalike hauling the mainstay, or whatever you do on a yacht - apart from falling mysteriously over the side when a pensions scandal threatens, of course. Obviously Johnny's earlier email suggesting a massage was directed at me. I'd tell him where to get off, if I didn't really need a massage to alleviate the pain in my neck caused by trying to spin round the spare curtain pole last night.
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