Bev chuckled as she finished her call, and snapped her mobile phone shut. That Elizabeth was a lark, honestly. Still, it was nice having a mate in central London, where one could just drop all one’s bags after a busy afternoon’s shoe shopping and share a cuppa. But she wasn’t so sure about the whole bent little finger thing while drinking, and it was taking some effort to master without dropping the fine bone china in the process, or sluicing tepid brown drink down one’s frock.
Team meeting
Team meeting. It was time for Bev’s tight boss to buy the biscuits. Bet they’d be digestives. Not even the chocolate ones.
Elevenses
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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…
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…
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…
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.
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!
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.
