And on the eleventh minute of the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month of the eleventh year, Bev ate a biscuit. For elevenses.
Chez Bank
Amos liked to frequent this part of the City during his lunch hour. It was called “the Bank” and all the smart looking men and women busied through this place, many of them holding slim, attractive executive valises. As he stood at the Tube exit, Amos gingerly wiggled his toes in his stylish business slip-ons: they were mock Italian, in soft black leatherette. Nobody could tell him apart from the young, slick intelligenci who filed past, as long as he kept his back pressed to the station wall to hide the unfortunate stain on the tails of his dinner jacket.
His secret hope was that the rain would hold off and he wouldn’t have to move position.
Polyester sale
Emily really enjoyed her new job as a sales assistant in a women’s outfitters. She loved the way the ‘design team’ visited once a fortnight to re-arrange the store, making it identical to every other outlet across the country. She was pretty good at her job, she thought to herself, as she perched on a garment box in the narrow windowless office kitchenette and bit into her toasty cheese sandwich.
Just before lunchtime she had made her first sale of the day, to a sophisticated-looking woman who had announced herself as “Bev”. Emily had demonstrated the range of women’s business apparel and did a great job explaining the benefits of 100% polyester suiting. “Not only does the natural sheen look smart, but it’s splash resistant and machine washable,” she explained. Bev seemed suitably impressed and purchased two pairs of Executive bell-bottom slacks, in charcoal-grey with a faint pin-stripe, and a matching black ‘Business Cowgirl’ belt made of genuine pleather.
Only 40 more sales this month and Emily would have her bonus!
Euro chic
“It doesn’t get any more French than this,” thought Bev, as she sipped her café olé and listened to French internet radio on her headphones, a full-size flag of Gaul draped over her hessian office hutch. They would think she was so chic with her new Euro fringe, trimmed short on one side, and her empty Gauloises cigarette packet left ‘carelessly’ in the staff brew room.
From now on, she would insist that people address her, first, in French: excuse moi, silvois plaise. Otherwise she would simply ignore them.
Bev sipped café from her stylish silver tasse. She was very proud of this metal cup which she’d purchased at a flea market in Clapham. But no-one knew that, and being none the wiser, how would they dare challenge the authenticity of her Parisien chattels?
Health kick
Amos’ new health drive wasn’t faring so well. Surrounded at his desk by plastic pots and jugs, he felt more like a demonstrator at a kitchen showroom than an information worker in a post-modern office. To his left, a two litre BPA-free plastic jug of still spring water; to his right, an air-tight Tupperware container holding mixed seeds and nuts. In the middle, his snivelling nose which he could scarce control from dripping. This health kick made him sick! But he knew it was all worthwhile – this was his body responding to the detox. And so it was that he took another small handful of seeds and shovelled them into his mouth, complete with an identically shaped piece of gravel from their ‘organic’ country of origin, chewing upon which broke off the top of his molar.
Hair drier
Bev stood crouched against the bathroom wall of her hotel suite. Why did they always install these stupid wall mounted hair drier stations with such a short cord? But she had to dry her hair before dinner with the Japanese visitors: there was a big corporate deal at stake. So with her face pressed against the anaglypta wallpaper, she soldiered on with the drier, wafting her head with ineffectually puffed tepid air, while her other hand helped to prop herself up.
She would fill out the feedback form in the guest information folder, the brown one.
Rally
Bev felt ridiculous heading to the Freedom of Speech rally in her leopard skin dress and patent oroton briefcase, faux or not.
Four days before Christmas
‘Twas four days before Christmas -
And all through the office
Just some light typing could be heard
Until one lady complained loudly and bitterly that “Duncan, your shoes absolutely stink”, and Duncan was humiliated in front of his colleagues and forced outside in search of deodoriser
Takleston village
An old man, snubbed by progress and the building of major roads through the village where he once spent his boyhood fishing with a thread in the stream. Now he sits on a brown fibre-glass bench next to the creek which dried up many years ago when the town planners sealed the inlet and directed its flow permanently underground.
The old man sits watching as parents deposit offspring from fancy cars, many of them parking on the pavement momentarily as youth leap from mobile leather interiors. He watches, and watches. Over several hours, the traffic reduces, until at 11am he decides a “little something” is in order and pulls a thin plastic bag from his worn army satchel.
He reaches inside the bag for a white bread sandwich made the night before. He begins to slowly chew on the soft foamy bread. He can barely taste the fish paste because his sense of taste is failing him these days.
As he sits and watches, sits and chews, his hand twitches involuntarily on the empty plastic bag, grasping at the thin creased material with the slight crackle that plastic makes. Here, at this incidental point in the universe, can be heard the very sound of pathos itself.
Cars roar on the overpass above.
With Gordon
Bev thought Gordon made for quite a nice boyfriend. He was a young politician, although his popularity couldn’t have been due to his good looks, she was sorry to say. But at 25 years old he held an active student card for discounted movies, tickets, meals etc. And he had a sizeable HECS debt to his credit.
Bev didn’t care about Gordon’s looks, nor even his battered car with crumpled panels and no hub caps. What mattered – obviously – was the profile. She made quite a display of herself in his open-top VW Beetle as Gordon drove down Collins Street in the city in the early evening, Bev waving to sundry folk and calling out to surprised passers-by as if she knew them. So chic!
“Camila!” she yelled in the general direction of a busy mother emerging from the Deli. “When are we on for canapes, darling?”
Gordon turned a shade redder and would have floored it, if he were not under strict instructions from Bev to crawl down the street, delaying the traffic for maximum pretentious effect.
The next day, Bev threw caution to the wind and went on a shopping spree, buying nearly 30 dressy suits and frocks suitable for Liberal party functions and luncheons with community members. Now that Gordon was elected it was important she looked the part. She would use Sarah Palin as her style guide. She would search high and wide to find those gauche spectacles: hang it all, she would even use the internet if she had to.
Orange blooms
From her office window, Bev observed a man walking down the street with a resplendent bunch of orange blooms.
They were not for her.
Bev excused herself from her desk and headed to the office kitchenette – a seemingly innocent move. What was not so innocent, however, was her knowledge that the narrow aluminium-framed window in the kitchen was the only aperture on the entire office floor that actually opened to the outside world. From here, aided by a small plastic stool usually used by the cleaner, Bev was able to pour a large beaker of steaming hot tea down into the alley below, directly onto the head of the man delivering flowers.
Which she did.
Nobody noticed the yelling from the man down below, because they couldn’t hear him.
And that, mused Bev, was the business justification for sealed air-conditioned offices. She liked the modern world of work.
Cake bar none
Adrian sat at his desk, staring at the small paper packet that his colleague had just delivered. Adrian had requested two “cake bars” from the local sandwich shop, and his colleague had dutifully purchased. While waiting for the sweetmeats to make their journey, Adrian had consumed two toasted sandwiches as luncheon.
Could he hold off until afternoon coffee?
No! He could not.
Could he perhaps start nibbling at one cake bar, and make a coffee before it was completely scoffed down?
No, he failed that as well.
The question remained whether Adrian would be able to delay eating the second cake bar before doing anything else.
The odds were not looking good.
As he bit into the soft mass, Adrian marvelled at the modern technology that allowed the production of cake in perfectly formed rectangular blocks of 120g. Humankind had truly brought everything under its command.
Apple
Bev sat slumped at her desk, almost physically weighed down by the thought of the long afternoon that lay ahead.
It would be an afternoon devoid of snacks and breaks. She’d had her lunch at 11am. And now there was nothing to look forward to.
There was of course a single green apple that lay on the desk. But unless it was covered in chocolate, Bev didn’t want to know.
Sun
The sun comes to those that wait. The sun has come to Canary Wharf.
And so Bev, armed with a £2 M&S meal deal (sandwich, crisps and a beverage) joins the hundreds of other brave souls to eat her lunch in one of the only green spaces in the Wharf.
The sharp wind doesn’t dampen spirits as office workers compete for bench space, huddle around chlorinated pools and sit on damp grass, careful not to crease their suiting.
Sandwiches are flourished, sushi is devoured and soup is struggled with. White, pasty flesh is exposed to the sun.
Towering hulks of steel and glass surround the space, but are forgotten for this brief respite.
A mangy bird tries to tweet.
The sound is drowned out by the roar of a million air-conditioners.
Unexpected error
Bev peered deeply into the office fridge. It was a place she loathed, but high anxiety called for brave action. She pushed various smelly open pots around the top shelf until she found the perfect thing: “Maggie Beer’s Tzatziki with pine nuts, tree leaves and tapioca”. It was absurd, pretentious stuff – and also was past its Use By date. It was perfect. She grabbed the opened tub and closed the fridge door firmly. She knew what she had to do.
Bev was aware that the expression of rage in the modern era had changed beyond recognition. In the olden days, women didn’t get angry, they merely “expressed their distaste”. Gentlemen, on the other hand, would rise at dawn, with an arrangement to meet their offending opponent. Pistols would be drawn: there was a winner and a loser. The matter was settled.
But these days, it was all about myriad digital frustrations. Delays while you waited on emails. Websites that didn’t work properly. Phone calls that didn’t get returned. Call centre operators with weak excuses like, “I’m sorry, the ‘system’ is slow today”. And of course the ubiquitous message that was meant to make sense to all humans,
“An unexpected error has occurred. Your request could not be processed.”
Bev knew it was not good enough. In her quiet, digital rebellion, she was going to make it all clear.
First, she typed a rapid email to her dizzy boss, a woman who couldn’t schedule her way out of a paper bag. “Won’t be in for the rest of the day,” Bev typed hastily. “Something has come up – cheers Bev.”
Then she tore back the remainder of the tin foil lid from Maggie’s disgusting Tzatziki-with-everything goop. Using her mouse, she brought the offending intranet page to the front of her screen. She felt a certain power knowing that its irritating, taunting words would be rendered unreadable in just moments. It had to be done with bare hands. No implements. It was part of the ritual. Human fingers against the dull resistance of intranet pages. Humans would prevail.
Taking a deep breath, she plunged her manicured fingers into the tub of Maggie’s stale dip. She took a large dollop. Then in a single deft action she applied the vile cream-and-green paste to her screen, right on top of the offending “unexpected error” message. The odour was repulsive. She repeated this action again, and then a third time, ensuring all of the grim paste was used and that the soul-less message was completely obscured by the slowly oozing mess.
As she looked at her handiwork on the screen, she felt satisfied. “Unexpected error,” was it? She’d give it ‘unexpected!’ It expected her to click OK as if to accept its absurd error like agreeing to an appalling fate. It never expected her to plaster it with stale savoury dip – and pine nuts.
And with that, Bev wiped her soiled hand roughly across the melamine desk, stood up and left the office for the day. One could only put up with so much.
Innocent gift
What had started out as an innocent gift, was now a curse.
Bev had been given a small block of Lindt “Milk Chocolate with a Delectably Smooth Centre” 100g the night before, and she’d taken this gift into the office with her.
She’d meant to have a small piece at elevenses, a little treat for having worked through the morning.
She had seven pieces.
After lunch, she thought she might have one piece to cleanse the palate and help her concentrate for the afternoon’s proceedings.
A further thirteen pieces later, she was in danger of gorging the lot.
With sticky fingers and chocolate stains about her mouth, she guiltily typed away at her report, all the while trying not to concentrate on the remaining tempting sweetmeats laying in the drawer.
Hollow assembly
The problem, Adrian mused, was that his manager was prone to giving unnecessary, and long, speeches at the slighest occasion. Nobody gave a fig about Ryan’s birthday, and they were equally disinterested in their boss’s dull exhortation about being a team player or some other such nonsense.
They all just wanted that blessed cake on the table, rich with chocolate and jellied orange slices, around which the salivating team had gathered for this hollow celebration.
Ryan, the bushy-tailed youth, shuffled with embarrassment from all the attention.
Health food
“Are you eating healthily, Adrian?” called his grandmother up the narrow stairs of the terraced Burnley house.
“Yes Nanna,” replied Adrian from behind his closed bedroom door, shovelling cold baked beans from a tin into his mouth using a dirty fork.
Outside the rain continued to sleet down from a leaden sky. If there was someone to be angry at for this hell-hole, the weather, life, everything, Adrian wanted to know.
Personal klaxon
Bev sat silently at her desk, trying to read.
The office was a-buzz as her colleagues worked around her: laughing, sighing, typing at inconceivable decibels, slamming phones, conducting hands-free conference calls. But it was the gimmicky sound effects that incensed her the most.
There were now sound effects for simply everything. New email. Sent email. Read email. Calendar notifications. Received instant messages. Sent instant messages. Phone calls via instant messenger. Live meetings via instant messenger. Video on demand. RSS updates. Mobile phone ringtones. Mobile phone received SMS alerts. Mobile phone sent SMS alerts. Voicemail message received.
Bev wondered about installing a foghorn or a klaxon on her desk. Something she could sound in retaliation every time she heard an offensive alert omitting from a colleague’s workspace.
She would buy one online tonight.
Bankrupt memories
“Called yourself an ‘innovator’ did you? You nasty piece of work, how dare you disgrace the aisles of Sainsbury’s with your failed engineering business!”
And with that, Amos began hurling tins of baked beans at the retired director of the failed engineering works.
It had been 14 years, but people around here had long memories. Sydney really just wanted to buy something for tea and walk quietly home from the supermarket with his dog, Squibbs. Instead he had to nurse a bruised lump on his forehead, as he carried his shopping bag containing breaded fish in a box through the rain-swept streets of Tooting.
Those baked beans really hurt.
Reindeer rash
Rudolph’s rapid rise to prominence was based solely on the old man’s favour. But when the venerable Dr. Claus was forced into retirement for his inadequate diversity policy, the hapless caribou found it difficult to convince the new management of his value to the business. When he presented his PowerPoint, the new CEO ignored his scorecard and just yelled, “You seen a vet about that sore? Get some ointment for that dermatitis on your snout!” Things weren’t looking good.
Rudolph needed a new gimmick to fix his shrivelling relevance – and fast.
He knew just who to call: an Alaskan spin doctor with all the right connections. She’d just finished a national campaign representing hockey in the highest places, so she’d be free to work on his case. With one hoof he deftly snapped open his cell phone. It was time to make the call.
“Hello, Sarah? Hi! It’s Rudie here…”
Fire meets desire
Bev, our roving fashion reporter, sends this latest update on haute couture:
American fast food chain Burger King is marketing a men’s fragrance with the scent of meat.
Called Flame, the company says the spray is “the scent of seduction with a hint of flame-broiled meat”.
The scent is on sale in New York for $3.99 and through a website that features a variety of romantic images – but no actual burgers.
Its character, the Burger King, is also seen reclining almost naked in front of a log fire with whipped cream.
From the BBC, of course.
Under the stairs
The most Reverend James Fortescue-Roberts-Smythe (or ‘Jimmy’ to his ecclesial mates) had found himself in some peculiar predicaments during his ministry. But it didn’t occur to him that hiding in a cramped cupboard under the stairs, clasping a china tea plate, was in any way strange. In fact, as he waited for Mrs Sodbury, his housekeeper, to finish her nattering on the vicarage telephone, he began to like his new environs. Perhaps he could bring a little three-legged stool in here to sit and think from time to time. He’d install a small brass knob on the inside of the door, to facilitate closure, and could retire under the stairs for a bit of peace and quiet – or even, a nap! It was perfect. Given its proximity to the chimney wall, it would always be warm in winter. So it was decided: he’d call this place his Secret Snug and would repair here whenever the Bishop (“Bishy, as he nicknamed him”) was on his case for some irritating ecclesial matter, requiring a letter to be written. If Mrs Sodbury didn’t suspect his internment, Jimmy could spend a whole day in here, conveniently missing unpleasant visits from Bishy, and having been “called away at short notice” when his various counselling clients called for their sessions. Jimmy’s strategy was simply to leave a note on the hall table, thus:
“Mrs Sodbury, short notice, been called to meeting. Will be out until 4pm, please advise callers. Please leave afternoon tea and cake on trolley in lobby near under-stairs cupboard. Regards, Rev.”
As regards his constitution, it would be trivial to wait for the mid-afternoon tea trolley to be unattended, before discretely opening the closet door to retrieve a generous wedge of Margaret Sodbury’s moist cake. He would keep the little tea plate under the stairs for such purposes.
This, he mused, was boyishly clever.
At the Post Office
Bev snuck into the Soho Post Office, feeling quietly smug as the lunch hour had not yet started and she would be sure to miss the crowds as she arranged for her Christmas card postal delivery.
She was, however, entirely unprepared for the scenes that immediately confronted her.
The seemingly endless queue writhed around the tiny, sweating space. It was almost as if Euro Disney had gathered all of its angry, impatient crowds waiting for a 3 minute entertainment ride at the end of a long Saturday in August and piled them all into this one terrible place.
Muttering all the swears she could remember, and even inventing some herself, Bev detected the end of the queue and began the arduous process of ‘who could break first’. Minutes ticked by. Seasons passed. Bev began to display the seven signs of aging. Perhaps the most irritating thing during this ordeal was the pre-recorded voices that chirped ‘please proceed to cashier 3 please’, ‘please proceed to cashier 6 please’ in alternate male and female voices, both of which were pronounced with a false brightness that made Bev believe: ‘I am in hell’.
A loud crash broke the hostile silence – a large plinth had collapsed to the ground, spewing forth a variety of festive detritus. The elderly man who had narrowly missed an appointment with his maker exclaimed to all those that would listen, “That was a deliberate attempt on my life!”
Bev shrugged. The old man had a point. Perhaps it was. The Post Office obviously could not keep up with the demand and had to control crowds somehow.
Several hours later, Bev stumbled out of the Post Office. Sweet freedom at last. Next year she’d use pigeons.
Dream signature
In his dream, Adrian was in a scene in which the CEO writes this email signature, and likes it so much that he insists all employees add it to their outgoing email:
Mission: “I am accountable for accelerating high value and competitive opportunities, and enabling Partners, by applying specialist expertise with passion!“
Adrian awoke with a headache. He decided not to go to work today.
Neighbourhood watch
Enid put on her nightgown, brushed her teeth and applied a thick coating of crimson lipstick to her lips. She wanted to look her very best if there was to be a disturbance during the night. She took her Neighbourhood Watch duties very seriously.
Lunchtime workout
“T’urrah, off to the gym!”
Bev knew she was being a little too disruptive, but she wanted to let as many people know about this plan as possible.
Right, she had about 45 mins to sit in the disabled toilet: an enjoyable respite and an opportunity to eat chocolate and read gossip magazines, guilt free.
* * *
Splashing some water on her face, Bev emerged from the toilet and staggered back into the office.
“Gosh, you’re good doing that during the day, Bev,” commented a colleague.
But the small slip of torn toilet paper, stuck to the heel of Bev’s shoe, was a dead give-away.
Hershey for President
George dropped the final folder of papers on the pile at the end of his desk. “That’s about it,” he said out loud, to nobody at all, because the room was empty. His furniture was already packed in the van and the only remaining items were the window treatments and a 75 year-old rug which was national property. And the bureau.
George leant against the desk, feeling slightly defeated. He wasn’t top dog any more; but being honest with himself, he was glad of it. Despite its messier moments, these 8 years hadn’t been without their benefits: at least his retirement fund was in good shape now, something that couldn’t be said for some other folks.
Suddenly an idea popped into his head. Fiddling in his trouser pocket, he found some small change. He was elated! It was perfect! With a spring in his step and purpose in his glide, in moments he found himself face-to-face with the vending machine alongside the library. This was one policy he’d failed to deregulate: important people should not be expected to pay for candy!
But as fate would have it, the machine was not so yielding this evening. Receiving his devalued 80 cents, the beige behemoth turned its spring-like dispensers on his selection, but no confection was dropped into the tray below. George looked askance into the machine; what was happening to him tonight? Did he need any more bad luck? The Hershey’s bar was suspended tantalisingly within reach, ready to make its long fall into the tray below … but it was caught on the dispenser. George weighed his options. Break into the glassy prison? No. Bail-out his property with more money? Never! There was only one thing for it.
George’s hip-and-shoulder move on the side of the “President” model vending machine caused both the tilt alarm to trip and the suspended chocolate to be deposited into the bottom of the unit. Just as he was standing up from the awkward posture required to retrieve his confection from the flap, the house security guard appeared.
“Everything OK, Sir?” asked the burly assistant over the din of the strident ringing bell coming from inside the machine.
“Yes,” replied George shortly, as he straightened up, with a frown, “just fine. Been quite a night. I needed something for elevenses.”
The aide used his large bunch of keys to silence the machine, and all was quiet again.
As George made his way back to the study to switch off the lights, the antique hall clock gently chimed the evening hour, as if nothing had changed and one era was quite the same as the next.
It was eleven PM. Time to enjoy his little snack, then teeth, pajamas, and bed.
Tomorrow was a new day, indeed.
eBay for company
Arthur was a regular eBay user and prided himself on having a perfect feedback score of 100% … because he’d never bought or sold anything. He regularly searched for items based in his home town of Adelaide and then would contact the sellers to ask simple questions, like:
Hello, I live in Adelaide, too.
How much will postage be?
Today after finishing his breakfast and wiping margarine off his beard, Arthur performed his regular eBay search:
“Items available in [Adelaide, Australia]“
He sorted the 20,235 items by “ending soonest”. He found the following:
Power board (Arlec brand)
Used brown sofa, suitable for a corner
Portable camping toilet
Luke Skywalker light sabre (no batteries)
Set of 12 tapered dinner-table wax candles
Arthur thought the last item was the most interesting. Could they possibly post wax candles across Adelaide? He’d ask the question of the seller now. Perhaps he’d get a response by lunchtime.
It was nice to hear from people.
Tears of a clown
Bev says:
There is a man I walk past almost every time I come to this office, and he makes me so sad.
I see him all the time because it’s his job to stand in the street, dressed up as a clown or magician or something, spruiking for Abracadabra – a magic themed restaurant which is also, bizarrely, on Jermyn Street.
Rain or shine, he is forced to stand outside in his curly Court Jester style slippers, trying to lure those city gentlemen and gentlewomen shod in the better kind of shoe, those least likely to be interested in a themed booth or a Harlequin Burger, into his pathetic establishment.
For the most part he stands silent, sullenly smoking a cigarette.
Credit crunch
It was Bev’s turn to bring in the Friday morning tea for her office colleagues. The tradition was fantastic when it was someone else bringing in the goodies, but for once, Bev didn’t resent her turn this time. Her elevenses treat was the result of the most amazing brain-wave she’d had. Perhaps she’d enter one of those television quizzes?
Marching into the office kitchen with her clacky heels at 10:55am, Bev unveiled her baked sweets (with what she hoped was a stylish flourish), to her colleagues who had gathered in anticipation.
“These are… credit crunches!” announced Bev.
Her colleagues gasped as they saw them. But, in fairness, they really were the most amazing snacks. Large, flat biscuits with intricate icing designs inspired by the global financial crisis, that Bev had forced her maid to get perfectly to scale the night before.
“Oh, my gosh, is that the Nikkei crashing?” asked one of her colleagues.
“The London FTSE 100?” asked another. “And is that a Wall St Trader in tears?”
Suddenly, one of the admins, Dorothy, burst into tears and fled the kitchen. “Oh, no,” explained an admin, “Dorothy’s banker husband was laid off yesterday”. Eyes were dropped and one by one, people shuffled out, leaving Bev with a full tin of credit crunches.
“I really do work with the most boring bunch,” thought Bev.
Allergy
“Oh, no thanks. I have an allergy.” And with that, Bev’s expensive Belgian chocolates were waved away by a colleague.
“A what? No, they’re only chocolates!” Bev reasoned, trying not to make a scene in the quiet office. Bev had spent a fortune on these sweets. It was important to look successful and affluent during a company merger.
“I have a gluten allergy,” explained the colleague with exagerated enunciation, her french manicured nails tapping on the desk with … was that impatience?!
“Oh dear … Your loss.” Bev swivelled on her heel and clacked away.
How excessively irritating! Bev fumed as she tapped the tea machine aggresively. Gluten-free-this and nut-allergy-that. Who were these people?? Bev longed for the days of obligation, when a proffered choc would be accepted and consumed out of politeness and decency, to hang with the crippling stomach cramps. Modern society had lost its moral compass.
Although…
It did sound exotic.
And all those people having to make a special fuss!
Perhaps she’d get an allergy in the morning.
Tannoy madness
Bev says:
We have had a series of announcements on our Tannoy system.
Lots of rustling and a beep-bop noise
“Attention, attention. Fire has been reported on levels 4 and 5. Please leave the building”
Further sounds of rustling and a beep-bop noise
“Attention, attention. No action is required at this point”
Further sounds of rustling and a beep-bop noise, followed by a new voice:
“Get out, get out while you still can!”
Sounds of laughing
“Catch me if you can”
Beep-bop.
And everyone starts laughing.
Well, at the expense of someone’s job, it’s been a good laugh.
Cocoa with Bromwyn
Bev looked out at the sodden London rain-scape and saw her Sphinx plant pot containing the pathetically brave English houseplants, even now being battered by the blast of London’s grimmest November weather. Curled up on her sofa, watching Channel 4 News and sipping a bitter mug of hot 99% cocoa, she could hardly know about the ancient Egyptian curse she had unwittingly brought back in her suitcase from her holidays. It would have been so much better if she’d declared the ancient artefact as she came through Customs. Centuries in the merciless heat had held the spectre at bay, but now, merry heck was about to be let loose in Bev’s compact and bijoux apartment as the rain lashed against the planter and, like a dried seahorse uncurling and coming to life, the primal phantom of Pharoahess Bromwyn would be knocking on her window pane just moments from now. Bev would get such a shock when she saw the image of her old boss, perched and sopping, outside her window on the balcony, but oh what a mistake, what a fatal mistake, to let her in…
Instinctive break
Adrian glanced at his wristwatch, although there was hardly any need. He knew instinctively that this was the time: 2:40pm. He opened his desk drawer and retrieved the familiar lemonade bottle. Pouring himself a small beaker full of the fizzing sweet beverage, he prepared himself for his afternoon break at his desk. Drink on one side of his keyboard, Twix bar on the other; everything perfectly in balance. And the protective comfort of his brown cardigan, to keep him warm from the beastly air conditioning outlet that was sited in the ceiling above him, pointing directly at the back of his neck.
Cake and the devil
Finally, at the end of an eternity, the angst’d youth left the Vicar’s study and he was on his own. The tea trolley was waiting and in a bound he was there. He hacked into the cake like a man possessed by the devil, cutting himself a generous wedge of the tempting, moist, firm sweetmeat.
“Oh cakey, cakey, Cakey!!” the Vicar muttered excitedly to himself, and dispensing with the niceties of using a fork, crammed the thin end of the double serving straight into his wide-open mouth.
Just then, the telephone rang.
More tea, Vicar
“Ah yes,” said the Vicar who was slumped heavily in the old leather arm chair in the half-light of the late afternoon, his empty china tea cup resting in his right hand on the arm of the chair. His response was completely disconnected from the young parishioner whom he was counseling; in fact the Vicar had been in a drifting haze of half-consciousness and half-nap: a skill he had perfected these many years such that his occasional “Ah yes” remarks convinced the guest of his interest and attentiveness, while in fact he enjoyed a brief kip.
A light trumpeting sound emanated from the trousers of the Vicar, at which he shuffled slightly in the old chair, a move so oft practiced it was subconscious to the grey-haired cleric. The self-absorbed young guest continued with his monologue of introspection while the Vicar eyed the ticking clock on the mantle and wished for the minute hand to arrive at the top of the hour, a moment at which the youth would be politely but firmly dismissed from the parsonage with his woes bundled up in his nylon anorak, and another cup of stewed tea could be poured, along with a generous second serving of the house-keeper’s moist cake. Lovely.
“Late Boy” scheme expands to USA
Latest news from Washington State Department of Transport is that the successful “Late Boy” program, first introduced in the United Kingdom as a means to reduce passenger frustrations with late-running rail services managed by Railtrack, has now been introduced as a trial in the USA.
In a modification of the original concept, the American implementation will be applied to freeway congestion in the first instance. Drivers are expected to give vent to their feelings at stationary freeway on-ramps and exits. Booths are being installed during the summer and late fall, for a pilot program beginning in October 2008. Training is underway at time of writing and priority is being given to workers displaced from other parts of the Transportation agency.
Washington “Late Boy” booth beside freeway on-ramp. Shown during testing:
A dance called Morris
As he approached the street performance which was even now blocking his passage through the town square, Adrian heard the irritating clack of whittled sticks and the pathetic tinkling bells of a Morris dancing troupe. He groaned inwardly. He really couldn’t see the point: it wasn’t entertaining back in 1650, and it was ridiculous now. Why preserve this absurd tom foolery of a dance? Ill-smelling middle-aged men, prancing about in off-white shirts with rolled up sleeves! Didn’t they have something better to do on a Saturday afternoon, like edging their lawns or delivering leaflets? He would write a letter about this to the Mayor. It was an activity that needed taxing.
Single-ply vigilante
It may have seemed extreme, but visiting the men’s room in his long coat was the only way to bring the adjustable wrench into the cubicle unseen. “Somewhere, some accountant bean counter made a business case for buying single-ply toilet paper,” Adrian thought to himself as he sat and worked on the unyielding bolts of the toilet roll holder, “and they justified LOCKING the toilet rolls in industrial grade steel dispensers to deter the pilfering activities of criminally-minded staff.” Two beads of sweat appeared on his forehead as he sweltered at his work with the wrench, crouching in his heavy great coat.
Finally, two innocent rolls of thin toilet paper were freed from their corporate bondage: it was a symbolic moment. Adrian slipped one each into the deep outside pockets of his coat. He was the vigilante – they would be safe with him. Concealing the wrench, he flushed the unused toilet and left the cubicle with a confident and brisk step, feeling like Darth Vader in his flowing cloak having committed a devious act for the dark side – and without washing his hands.
Shoe shopping
In her nightmare, Bev had been in a shoe shop, the assistant endlessly offering the same cork-wedged sandals but with different colour straps. For some reason she couldn’t leave. “Lime GREEN Perhaps?” came the question for the 50th time, an impatient, malevolent tone in the voice. Not prone to nervous ticks, Bev felt her head twitch involuntarily. She looked down to find her arms crudely bound to the chair with sticky-backed tape which said SALE SALE SALE every few inches. Around her feet, which were also bound, were strewn 200 open boxes of cork-wedged footwear in every shade of green imaginable.
Bev woke with a start and looked at the clock radio. It was 7:00 am. With one ear to the pillow, she couldn’t make out the music so she nudged the volume slightly. “Take On Me” was playing. It reminded her of the muzac in some shop she’d been in recently, she couldn’t quite recall…
Hazel
It had been a good day, Desmond mused, as he sat on the bus traveling home. Jeans Day had been a success – he felt smart in his ironed denims, but more than that, the young girl with mousey brown hair who ordered the stationery had said hello to him in the corridor. He replayed the moment over in his head – “Hello Desmond,” she’d said. She’d used his name. Desmond pressed back into the seat of the juddering bus, enjoying again the feelings that moment brought to him.
The bus left the freeway and began its winding tour of the suburbs. Desmond looked down in his seat; he was very pleased with these black jeans. Resting on his lap was his new book which he hadn’t started, “How to be an Information Worker for Dummies ™”.
Jeans Day
Desmond awoke and remembered instantly: it was Jeans Day at work! Rubbing his eyes, he turned his head on his pillow and slowly focused on his jeans hanging in his bedroom, collected from the dry cleaner the day before. He’d asked for creases to be ironed down the legs especially.
He was planning to wear his jeans with his black shirt. He’d seen Simon Cowell wear something similar on one of his television programmes.
Showering quickly, he felt a flutter of anticipation as he got dressed. This was an opportunity, he thought, to really feel part of the team. To feel included. Perhaps one of his colleagues might acknowledge or speak to him today? He hoped so.
Employee vend
Adrian stood at the glass fronted vending machine trying to understand what he was being told. He had inserted a limp bill and now had one dollar of credit. But on making his selection – a Twix – the vending robot displayed impolitely, “Use Exact Change” on its one line display, and the Refund button would not work. Adrian thought it very amusing that he was now forced by a machine into ‘up-sell’ and he had to select a pocket-packet of Basil’s Vanilla Sandwich Crème biscuits, for a full $1.
This moment of private hilarity was upstaged seconds later by the appearance of a blonde piece, stabbing buttons on the nearby coffee machine. Wearing cork wedge sandals.
Lime green
Samantha sat at her window seat, sipping her cup of pungent Jarrah, adjacent to that unknown minion, was her name Bev? Tess? She couldn’t remember, it hardly mattered. This tea was sooo nice, she told herself.
She felt so comfortable today in her Cartier Keyhole suit, it had been so expensive in Paris but worth every Euro, and especially as it showed off her mock-antique décolletage so nicely. And the lime-green cork wedges were just sooo a la mode in Paris – surely these Sydney people would get the point soon, and she would get a promotion.
Samantha tried hard to block out that irritating humming coming from the opposite cubicle – it was that annoying Bess again – what was she humming? Oh good grief, was it Lionel Richie? How passé. She was grateful when her mobile phone began to vibrate on her desk, covering the irritating dirge of the serf girl with a clever rendition of “Take On Me.”
“Amos! Doll! …”, she began with exaggerated delight as she answered her diminutive mobile handset…
Sell! SELL!
Darrien wasn’t very good with computers due to missing most of his ICT classes. Uncomfortable in the executive leather chair, he thought of the Work Experience motto: “take a risk!” So he pressed F12 and sold $1.2m of stock, making his probabationary employer a timely profit: the ASX crashed the next day, Darrien’s flex day, around the time Darrien was pumping up his brother’s bicycle tyres.
Orange
Gripping the handle of the knife carefully, Vanessa made a nervous incision in the body on the table. Growing with confidence, she pressed the knife deeper into the yielding flesh, wondering vaguely if she was anywhere near the heart. The surgeon, her work experience supervisor, flicked vaguely through the latest Who magazine, which had been placed over the head of the patient. Taking a deep drag of her filtered 16 milligram, the surgeon noticed, if the Oscars were anything to go by, that orange was back in again.
The Warden
Pausing to scrape dog mess from the heel of his shoe, Roger stepped off the pavement to cross the busy main road. He felt very important in his new parking warden uniform. He looked back over his morning’s work: a line of cars, courier vans, a cement truck, a bicycle and even a recycling bin had all received parking infringement notices. As he reached the other side of the road he made his way into Smoke Mart & Gift to buy a chocolate bar in celebration of his first day at work.
Negotiation
It had been an exhausting 5 1/2 hour negotiation. Even so, Patrick paused, ever so slightly, before finally accepting the sizable bribe from the local businessman. He wasn’t sure if he was now, officially, moving beyond the boundaries of his work experience role in his capacity as Junior Clerk at the local Council. But, he reasoned, the Mayor had placed Patrick in charge of the Council during his week long secondment to the Gold Coast.
Innoculation
His first morning at the paediatric immunisation unit had been busy, but James was glad of the activity. Only last week he would have been laying in bed until lunchtime every day, scratching himself and eating timtam biscuits for every meal. The work was routine although he didn’t like it when the infants let rip with their wails as he jabbed them with “Hep-B combo” as the nurse called it. He was surprised that she treated him like a superior rather than a trainee: he was expecting something different when he signed up to be a Ward Orderly on work experience. He rummaged in his white coat for the keys to the vaccine cupboard, wondering how he was going to tell the identify the non-mercury innoculations. Surely it didn’t matter – just as long as he didn’t jab himself with the syringe again, like he had twice this morning.
(Elsewhere in the hospital)
Malcolm smiled to himself as he pushed his fourteenth patient into the theatre pre-op area. It was a great policy this hospital had: even experienced doctors were required to get some hands-on experience of “on the ground working”. And actually it was quite interesting getting to see the patients and the general traffic of sick people up and down the corridors. Perhaps next week he would start his real job in the immunisation unit – he assumed someone would come and welcome him, introduce him to his team, show him his new office. But for now he was happy with the smell of disinfectant and placing his hands on the worn bed rails, putting his back into it… “come on Mrs Jones, I’ll take you to surgery now.”
Fashionably Jarrah
Bev says:
I am in an inexplicably good mood today and nothing makes me happier than wailing on someone else’s fashion sense.
My neighbour at work today is wearing a lime green paisley see-through top with a delightfully huge key-hole cut out – revealing her décolletage in all its glory. This is enhanced by cork wedge heels, with a lime strap.
She calls everyone “doll” and her mobile phone ring-tone is A-ha’s “Take on Me”. Nothing is more enjoyable than having that endlessly blasting away at 3000 decibels as she steps away from her desk to make another cup of Jarrah.
Meeting crime
Barbara was bored. It was a long meeting, and ever so tiresome listening to the detached voice on the conference phone. She stood up and started stroking the meeting room wall, which had an interesting mottled grey fabric covering. The woman on the speakerphone droned on and on, oblivious of this minor act of rebellion. After so many uninterrupted minutes of speaker spiel, Barbara stepped out of the room entirely, the silent-closing hydraulic door an accessory to her meeting crime. There was only so much caressing of wallpaper one could do, after all.
To her delight, Barbara found four gleaming silver turines of warm food were waiting outside in the corridor. She felt like Goldilocks discovering the Bears’ breakfast. Mmmmm, penne pasta with tunny fish, her favourite. Barabara tucked in for an early lunch.
“Imprimatur”
The 8550 printer lies still and beige,
A crock of despair, having seen better days.
Come to think of it, we can’t remember when
The bloody thing ever worked – not even on day one!
So wield the hammer, wield the hammer,
Wield the hammer on the cowling of beige;
Yes – wield the hammer, and wield it swiftly -
And give us an outlet for our techno-rage.
(Imprimatur is a Latin term from the 17th century, meaning that the Pope or other authority gives “permission to print” a document.)
Eternity in traffic
Adrian sat in the rush-hour traffic for what seemed like an eternity. These were the slowest traffic lights and they only let 3 cars pass per green. Then back to the long red wait. Motionless in his little wheeled box, he stared into the middle distance of dusk and wondered what it was all about. Gradually his eyes drifted downwards, scanning with disinterest the vehicle in front of him, settling eventually on its bumper sticker which asked helpfully, “Eternity: smoking or non-smoking?”
Baileys from Dublin
It was 10am and literally hours after the depressing fruit and yoghurt meal Bev had consumed to break her fast. A little sweet pick-me-up was what she wanted, and she knew just the treat.
A few weeks ago, Bev had begrudgingly bought some Baileys flavoured chocolate at the Dublin airport, an offering for her colleagues after her weekend mini-break in Ireland. She wasn’t sure when the tradition of buying local treats had started but it was now a mandatory task to bring in sweetmeats following a trip. A glorious surprise when it was someone else sharing their holiday experience through the medium of chocolate, an irritating obligation when the task fell to her.
But she had taken a chance. Slinking into work early, Bev had sneakily placed the Bailey’s chocolate in her top drawer. Should anyone mention her trip she would bring out the chocolate and pass it around. But if the trip was to be forgotten, well … the chocolate would be hers and hers alone.
So a few weeks had safely passed.
Now, her desk mate, a Cambridge intern, offered her tea. “No, thanks” Bev politely refused. This would be the chance she would need.
The intern went to the kitchen.
Bev slid the drawer open and pulled out the chocolate. Muffling the sound of the wrapper as best she could she broke off a piece, 2 pieces and guiltily shoved them in her mouth. Eat, EAT, she thought, there wasn’t much time!
The Late Boy
Arnold sat in his little wooden booth, sheltering from the windy blast of the open platform. His worn radio played the strains of popular music, to Arnold’s ears they were all the same. The cracked volume knob was secured to the set with Sellotape. Beside the radio, his copy of The Mirror and his faded sandwich box. He’d eaten one of the sandwiches already and it wasn’t even 8am.
Arnold had a second sense that he was in for a beating as the train drew into the station. As the electronic doors opened in synchronisation, and the trapped masses pounced onto the greasy platform, he heard the volume rise. There was rage in the air, borne along by the charging horde, the sound of primal commuters now released from their captivity. There was no stopping them as the charged on the little wooden booth. It was amazing how such instruments of civilised gentility, the humble briefcase and brolly, could cause such harm to an aging Railtrack employee. But that was his lot, agreed by an FTE contract with pension benefits and 20 days annual leave: the sign above his occupational station said simply, “Late Boy,” an invitation to be beaten for various breaches of timeliness and related frustrations on the railway. Arnold protected his face and neck with a move taught him during his induction.
Bev was braced at the back of the madding crowd, her modest brolly aloft and ready to strike this stupid man, like her fellow passengers. She felt her turn coming, as satisfied commuters pealed away from their bashings and the next row moved forward. How could they warrant 18 minutes of lateness and standing room only? She felt her ire rise. He would Get It from her.
But then, almost immediately, it was her turn – and everything changed. She was no longer angry. Now she was at the front of the crazed crowd, looking down into the pathetic little booth where Arnold the Late Boy had his vocational abode. He was not some burly, strong character with protective wear for his punishment: he was a man in advanced middle-age, poorly shaven, in regulation navy blue Railtrack garb. His tie was dishevelled. His lip was bleeding and his glasses were pressed haplessly across his face from the many blows. There was a deep mark on his forehead from some blunt instrument of commuting. Was he conscious, as he sat on his stool, his back to the wall of the booth, somewhat slumped and senseless from receiving his duty? Bev could hardly lift a hand against this man, but wanted to help him.
She clicked her chic Cellini brolly closed and turned away. She was late for work.
Jammy revenge
“Somewhere in Old England somebody thought jam with turkey was a good idea,” Adrian thought to himself as a medium-sized blob of sticky red substrate slipped onto his suit trousers from the soft turkey and salad bap he was eating, a roll which he’d found ‘going spare’ on a platter in the office kitchen after an executive function attended by several government officers each of whom had also encountered the caterer’s jammy revenge on their soul-less grey suits, but telling nobody of their sticky mishaps lest they were exposed as lacking the requisite social skills to successfully eat gourmet bready luncheon rolls from paper plates while standing at a vendor event, a light meal which could feasibly be construed as receiving gifts to influence their already hampered decision making capacities, impartial or otherwise.
Shortbread Fingers
Bev snuck open her desk draw carefully, revealing a packet of Walkers ‘Homebake Recipe’ Shortbread Fingers. There weren’t many left, a terrible tribute to Bev’s gluttony given she had only bought them yesterday and they had actually been meant as a ‘thank you’ gift for an American colleague.
She wanted desperately to avoid sharing them with her colleagues.
A loud cough and a practiced twist of her fingers managed to ply one of the buttery treats from its cardboard home. Hmmm… a nice treat for elevenses, thought Bev as she took her first bite. Pure but guilty bliss – this was going straight to her thighs. Taking a small sip of tea (no milk, she was watching her weight) she looked around at her colleagues. 4 people less than a metre from her. They had no idea. Ha ha ha haaaaa. It was these little pettinesses that made coming to work worthwhile.
Sausage meat and mouth noises
Adrian’s colleague, a friendly engineering type with a tendency to speak his mind, sat at his desk eating something that smelt like lightly warmed – but not cooked – sausage meat. There were minor mouth noises and the rustle of sandwich wrappings.
A creeping nausea came over Adrian.
