Monday, 5 November 2007
here is something for people reading this at work:
We are in work. We are working. Oh god. Hello there. Here comes the boss. What are you having for lunch? Did you see X-Factor at the weekend? Me too. My brother has been in university for the last seven years. We are opening paperclips and making them into the shapes of horses. Mine is better than yours. Mine has little hooves, see? Can you make yours gallop across the table and mount mine? Not in a sex way, just in a one-horse-riding-another way? If I took all the things on this table and balanced them one on top of the other, how big a tower of things do you think I could make? A phone on top of a box of drawing pins on top of a fax on top of a sellotape. I haven’t even started. I am having marmite in my sandwiches. I made them last night, four in the morning. It was cold in the kitchen. He’s gone now. He’s in the office. We can talk normally. Say something. Are you going for a drink afterwards? I’m going out into the hall. I’m going to go to that veggie place for lunch. Fuck students. I’m going to fax my face to the head of the department. I’m going to make a facebook group about my legs. “My legs.” Here is the phone number for that guy who was asking about that thing. Clare, can I have a quick word? I got hammered last night. I fed my life savings into a deal or no deal machine. I got shafted. I watched telly and nothing came on. If we all stood up at the same time, if we all started banging everything we owned on our desks, what do you think would happen? We are like invalids. I am cold. I am being frozen alive by the air-conditioning. I am making my chair go round in a miniature circle beneath my desk. The man in the lift was looking at me. ‘Hot property’. There are Americans somewhere, doing things, picking things up and putting them down again. There are starving kids in Africa. My sandwiches will curl at the edges when I open my lunchbox. My hair is nice. Nissan. Pentium pro. The floor above = confusing. We are moving around with our hands and legs. We are making a mess. We are phoning. We are chewing. Elvis Costello has not written a good song in about seven or eight years.