Busting that bumper of mine from 9 straight to 5…
Date: Friday 26th September 2008
Location: Cradle & Partners international insurance Brokers.
6th floor St Bernard’s House, 8 Gracechurch Street, City of London EC3V
Gawping out of the large paned windows adjacent to my cluttered desk, I saw that, as per usual, the bustling City of London’s skyline was sprayed a lacklustre grey.
“Oh well, such is life. It’s all good,” I smiled.
For once, the miserable weather didn’t even bother me in the slightest.
Nope. A pigeon could have crapped all over my freshly pressed hair and I still wouldn’t have cared. Ok, well maybe just a tiny bit. Not even the heinous crime of almost stepping RIGHT into the mother of all whopping dog turds, located RIGHT outside my low rise block this morning, couldn’t faze me. No siree.
“ …CANT W8 2 C U L8A XxX…” Pressing SEND on my dinky little Nokia 6500, I joyfully spun around on my chair.
Mmmm he’s over foiiinnnneee. Call me sad like, but I couldn’t help staring back at one of his Facebook photo albums for like the millionth time that afternoon.
“Oh hark at her thinking she’s some kinda’ video vixen. Ha! Oooh purleaze I don’t think so love,” I muttered.
Flippantly clicking on to the next image, I continued to bypass the odd snap of him posing and hugging up on some of these irrelevant girls. For one, I’ve never been the jealous type and two, if things kept going the way they were between us, those tasteless photos would soon be replaced with classy shots of me instead. It was only a matter of hours before I’d be linking him anyway. Taking a deep gulp I couldn’t quite explain what was happening, but with a rapid amount of saliva quickly building in the crevices of my mouth I may as well have been dribbling. How embarrassingly shameful. Real talk though. With a skin tone the texture of smooth toffee, mocha brown eyes framed by the most ridiculously long black lashes and a dazzling white smile fit for any toothpaste advert, Marlon Reid was definitely all that and a large portion of fish and chips.
Put it this way. Marlon effortlessly made the likes of his royal buffness Trey Songz and yes even Mr. Sexual Chocolate himself, Morris Chestnut, look like they’d been licked down with the ugly stick.
“Marcia, yav yaouw printed that stats report yet?” Gordon, my ‘oh so beloved’ work colleague grunted.
My skin prickled with instant irritation.
“Yes…Gordon,” I droned.
Alright, alright so I was lying. Kind of. I hadn’t even opened the Excel spreadsheet as yet but I was just about to, I promise. Just one quick glance at that greasy mop of mousy brown hair pasted to the sides of Gordon’s pudgy face was reason enough for me to go home on indefinite sick leave.
“Piss off man,” I hissed under my breath.
I couldn’t help wishing that the Buddha bellied, King of Mingness would just mind his own damn business instead of constantly digging that fat nose of his into mine.
“Talk about inna…” I whispered, releasing a deep sigh heavy with frustration.
Who does he think he is, knocking me out of my fantasy? Glancing over the top of the computer monitor, I suddenly found myself fascinated by Gordon.
Believe it or not, he had taken to wiping his thick, bottle top glasses with the same dingy handkerchief he’d blown his nose into not even five minutes ago.
“Euwww, that’s so butters man,” I scowled, recoiling in disgusted horror.
The phone vibrated on the desk, causing the empty Evian bottle near it to topple over.
“NEITHER CAN I BABES…WE’RE GONNA HAVE FUN XXXXX”
“You’re damn right we will,” I quipped, scrolling down Marlon’s text.
Resting my chin in the palm of my left hand, I helplessly drifted back off into the beautiful comfort zone that was my daydream. I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Marlon since we met over two months ago back in Ayia Napa. Oh my days. I tell you what, just one look into those…
“Marcia. Can-I-yav-that-report- PLOYZ!” Gordon snapped, thumping his porky fists on his desk.
“Alright, alright keep your hair on,” I retorted.
Some people. Honestly, with Gordon’s facial expression crumpled beyond disrepute, the man looked like an unmistakable replica of that one eyed Sloth from the classic Goonies movie.
Producing the loudest (but not too blatantly obvious of course) ‘you’re- jarring- me Gordon- so -do -one -you- dickhead’ tut I could manage, my mouse scrolled across the formula saturated spreadsheet and slammed on the print icon.
“Chillax man, I’m going…”
“’Oo many times does I yav ter aks? What’s wrong with the wench? ‘Ers always got ter be organisen ‘er social loife duren worken hours,” Gordon quietly sniped whilst the richness of his Brummie accent skittered in my direction.
I closed my eyes to escape the hideous blob of glumness that wasn’t positioned too far away. How dare he? It was understandable I guess. I mean if I spent my free time collecting Birmingham City football club memorabilia, polishing my Star Trek figurines and counting the fleas in my smelly cat’s fur, I wouldn’t need to organise my social life during work hours either.
“Don’t go there Marcia. Just don’t go there….” I repeated through gritted teeth.
I concentrated stupendously hard on keeping my jaw under control. It’s like this. One had to rescue one’s self from another sadistic onslaught dished out by the crusty vultures festering away in the Human Resources department. I chose on this occasion to calmly count to ten, rather than subject my poor ears to some long ting drivel about the company’s precious values and behaviours procedure. This option had to be smarter than opening the volatile danger zone that was better known as my gob.
Bolting up out of my chair, I demurely smoothed the skirt part of my black pinstripe French Connection dress over my broad hips.
“Mingrat!” I murmured before waltzing in the direction of the printing area.
[Continues Next Week…]