I sat in a staffroom today in an attempt to be sociable. The truth behind the door was that there was nowhere else for me to go. I wanted to work on the computer but that spot had been taken by a woman who spent her time talking about this and talking about that and talking about the other. She had within her sturdy frame the ability to talk at will. She discharged words with the ease of a sub-machine gunner. Her conversation roamed around her territory and into those governed by others. It was a sort of well-run workout of the larynx with a turbo-charger attached just to get the sentences out.
Although I sat there for a goodly time, I cannot recall anything that she disgorged; it was all such a miasma of mumbling, punctuated with an odd yet highly exaggerated exclamation mark!
I took to walking the corridors, strolling around with a sheet of paper in my hand as if I were on an errand of some mythical proportions. My battle had been lost and I had the news clasped firmly in my hands and I also held the knowledge that the missive would have massive implications for my personal wellbeing. Instead of being a dead messenger, I decided to keep the bad news to myself. All doors were locked to me and all faces were those of strangers.
Tucking my tail firmly between my legs, I re-entered the staffroom in which my lady of the gab continued to assail her audience, of one, with more tales from the mundane, drivel from the dark side, and…
And…another woman said that she thought that raising your voice and shouting whilst communicating with non-English speakers was the most effective policy. It’s also good to change basic grammar.
“You go talk Mr Evans, he tell you work hard and be very quiet like tiny mouse in class.”
Job done! So, I’m sitting through this half-witted drivel and restraining any urges I have to scream out loud, when I realise that these women believe themselves to be superior to myself.
Fuck, everybody thinks that these days. Me go cuckoo with little devil in head. I’m thinking back to the receptionist who greets everyone else with a cheery ‘how’s you father’ and a have a lovely dishrag day, whilst grunting towards the general area in which I am standing and reminding me not to forget my sheets at the end of the day. This is what you get for giving up two valuable years of an already disappearing life so that the madness inside of my soul can be expurgated.
Tomorrow is my birthday. I am soon to be of an age that no respectable lady would mention in a public place. I, though, am no lady. I am a gentle homme of advancing years who hates the cold blast of the Arctic and the even colder draught of my older self. At the moment, I feel as if I am approaching 150 years rather than the 120 and that has convinced my old bones that the spurs that I do not wear ought to be hung up for good.
Old man river, that old man river,
He just keeps repeating himself.
My idea of Hell would be an eternity with a group of half-wits. I would hate their cheery hellos. Their light-touch conversation about putting the washing out, having a trip to M&S, planning a salad from their Jamie cookbook. What is worse than all of this would be to sentenced to eternity with a half-wittendom where everyone thought that they were something else; like a 51% wit. Those types are dangerous as they believe they know things that have managed to evade the brightest minds on the planet.
“I think the theory of relativity is wrong.”
“I was watching Brian Cox last night and…”
“Hasn’t he got lovely teeth?”
“Yes, I was thinking that. He’ll have had them whitened. All of those folk on the telly have to have them whitened.”
“I’m getting mine done for the holidays.”
“Where are you going? We’re off to the Dominican.”
“Dominican Republic? Where they have all those tropical storms?
“We’ve never had one when I’ve been there. Where are you going?”
“Not going away this year. We’re having a Jacuzzi put in.”
“Aren’t you special?”
“Rob got it from work. His boss has just bought another one, three time the size. You can get up to twenty people in it a once.”
“I don’t know what make it is, but we’re having it fitted for Christmas. We’re having a shelter with a door.”
“You putting it in the garden?”
“Next to the garage. Bit of a windbreak.”
“Do you think that Brian Cox is attractive?”
“Well, it all depends doesn’t it?”
“Depends on what?”
“Well, it’s relative isn’t it?”