a.funnytimeofyear.com

So he’s standing there, and I’m standing here, and there’s this space between us – stale dusty odour lingering between the duo of tills between us, and I’m waiting for the initiation. The softcore interrogation, the subtle questioning, the flick of a discreet camp wrist and he’s away. You can’t stop him now – he’s a parasitical workforce.

“So, when d’ya finish?”

Now you have to understand that this is the key line to commencing work-related, mundane conversation. If you want to begin dialog with any other co-worker, you must first blurt out this somewhat code-like sentence, if you want to gain any recognition. I tell him my rota’d times, and he nods, because he’s going to forget those times in a microsecond, but quite frankly that doesn’t matter – I’m sure he’s got ulterior motives. He recalls that it was my birthday last week, eagerly asking me what kind of debauchery occurred, and begins to sniff around venues.

“Any bars?” he asks.
“Plenty,” I say, raising an eyebrow with my back to him.
“Which?”
“Some in London,” I say. I’ve figured the best way to keep it from getting out, is to become the King of Discretion. You can tell people what you did, but don’t divulge too much. Right?
“That’s cool,” he swiftly croons. “Have you heard of a club called Popstarz?” he asks. He knows I have. “I’m supposed to be going there on Friday.”

And it wouldn’t be so bad.

It really wouldn’t.

If he weren’t so fucking irritating. With his dangly oversized gold hoop earrings, swinging from his lobes and cartilage like a goddamn rocking chair. His slick back hair exposing his growth-like forehead, smothered in ickle pimples (not that my skin is any much better, mind you.) His lanky legs, lean torso, thin and stick-like fingers reaching out when he hands me my folder. I shudder when I think of him.

So when he says, Whatcha doing Valentines Day, I start to cringe. This could get ugly. Nothing, I say, in fact, I say, I’m working. He’s working too, he says, and he might just spend all night with me. There’s this sly grin across his face, his thin little lips like strips of sausage across a chicken breast face, and I think I might vomit soon. Really, I think. I might just cancel my overtime, I say, nod my head, and turn back to my customer.

Today, to pass the time (and there was lots of it), I wrote haikus.

5:36pm
Fire in my mouth
The posh lady speaks in tongues
Silent child screams

6:01pm
She’s a golden girl
Giant clowns around her trunk
How did she happen?