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by Stacey 

Posted: 29 April 2003
Word Count: 1156
Summary: a bit of chick lit humour

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Content Warning
This piece and/or subsequent comments may contain strong language.

“Louise!” I shouted with such hatred I even scared myself. “What have you done with my hairbrush!” No reply “. I may as well have had deaf-mute for a flatmate. I pushed my nose right up close to the bathroom mirror, squashing the tip of it flat on the condensated glass leaving an unsightly off-round looking patch on the mirror, and leaving my nose looking a lot like Rudolph’s with the biggest zit known to mankind on the end of it. Why is it, whenever you have anything important happening, you always get a stupid ugly spot to make your day run even smoother? Not. Please excuse my sarcasm, I’ve only had two and a half hours sleep-and it just so happens to be my first day at my new job today-great. (Oops, there I go again, sorry).
Maybe I should fill you in a bit on why I’m in this fantastic mood. Now, you’re no doubt thinking, why oh why Miss. Angela Simms, did you only manage to steal yourself such a short bedtime when you had such an important day today? Well I’ll tell you-briefly, as I am running late already, and my hair looks like someone has fried their Bacon Rashers in it. So, me and my trusty Mini Metro were making our way back from my Mums house after four hours of home videos (her and my Step Dad have just got back from safari) and endless cups of chamomile, accompanied by those strawberry mini-rolls-I quite liked that part actually. Bless my dear old mother, but how she found almost three hours flat of complete silence and the occasional elephants trunk appearing in the corner of the camera screen barely interesting, I’ll never know.
I managed to escape at eight forty five. Perfect I thought, plenty of time to go home, order some chinese with Lou, have a big bubbly radox lavender bath, and put

that free conditioning treatment from this months cosmopolitan on my thirsty hair. Wishful thinking Angela. So, I’m driving through Kentish Town, like you do, feeling
particularly cheery, not just cause Id escaped the prison on Motherdom, but Sting was on the radio, more than enough to cheer me right up. Whilst singing (or droning, whichever you prefer), the second verse of ‘Englishman in New York’, I became distracted for a mili-second by a rather lovely and frequent daydream I often had about me and Sting in this big castle blissfully happy, with loads of maids, but our head servant was Trudy Styler. Ha ha.
Bang. Then a little thud. Then another bang. Followed by some rather unnecessary swearing from a gentleman with a Northern accent. I’d had an accident. The first in seven years of driving. Shit. Was I alive? I couldn’t quite figure it out, after all, that particular daydream had felt very real. I glanced at myself in my rear view mirror. No sign of damage. I eyed myself up and down, but whilst halfway in between my belly button and hips I felt my neck lock. Ouch, ouch, double ouch. I remember my sister once having an accident, and having a thing called ‘Whiplash’, for which she had to wear an unsightly dog collar looking thing. As I managed to release my neck back up wards into a normal human’s position, I was faced with Mr. Foul-mouthed-northerner himself. And was he foul mouthed. Lets just say, to cut an almost never ending story short, (cause I really am running late now), the next twenty minutes were spent shouting abuse at one another, the ten after that, acknowledging my car had a lot more damage than I anticipated, and half an hour after that, the tow-truck people arrived and took my baby away to fix her. Another ten minutes later, an

ambulance appeared to take me to hospital, (which in case you were wondering, stunk of school dinners for some strange reason), with Mr. Nasty, still swearing at me.
Two hours later, I’m out of the hospital, along with my new collar, and in a taxi home-with the idiot, moaning in my ear the whole way back, about the tiny scratch on
his brand new SLK Mercedes, (did he not see the damage on my precious metro!) giving me this address, this number, this email etc. to contact him with my insurance details ASAP, bla bla bla. Didn’t he know I was in pain!
I dragged myself up to my flat on the forth floor of Hillside apartments, Camden, as though I had ten tonne weights attached to my feet. I looked back (slowly and painfully, due to this new edition to my upper body) to see my new worst enemy shaking his head at me through the cab window, as he continued his journey to his home, which was probably in a dungeon somewhere, stupid ogre.
Which brings me back to this morning-and I hope now you can understand the reason for my horrible mood. So, here I am in another taxi (oops, let me bring you a bit more up to date, whilst I was busy explaining all that to you, I scraped back my hair, or that pile on my head that kind of resembled it, into a big bun, attempted to hide the dark circles under my panda eyes with Louise’s Clarin's concealer-don’t tell her though, shed kill me-, pulled on my most sensible black suit with white shirt underneath, which just so happened to typically have a huge mustard stain down the front-Note to self: Keep jacket on at all times today, even in the hottest climates-,then I put that ridiculous collar on and raced out the door. What a morning).
I pulled up outside Weller & Stubbs, my new workplace, heart racing uncontrollably through fear and maybe also cause I’d replaced my coffee with a red

bull this morning. I shoved a screwed up fiver in the driver’s hand, & putting my best foot forward, I walked in, trying not too notice all eyes on me as I was clearly ‘the new girl’. Surprisingly confidently, I waltzed up to the main reception, asking for the head of marketing’s office. The receptionist pointed her glossy pink fingernail in the direction of room 23. I thanked her, took a deep breath and was ready to face my new boss.
I decided to put all the anxiety & strain of last night’s occurrence behind me as I swiftly reached out my hand, & gave two loud knocks on the door. “Do come in”, spoke an all too familiar northern accent. Hmm, wonder where I’d heard that before. Dismissing the thought, I entered. And came face to face with my boss. None other than Mr.Foul-mouthed-northerner. Unsurprisingly, his next words were,
“Oh shit, you’re not my new fucking assistant are you?”
“Ahem. 'Fraid so.” I answered sheepishly, feeling my whole body turn the colour of my spot.
Well, this was going to be interesting.

Story ends

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Comments by other Members

Scott at 21:32 on 29 April 2003  Report this post
This was really well written, you gave the person a real feel of what the core character was going through, feeling and seeing. A lovely use of descriptions and emotions, I actually wondered whether or not any of these things may have well happened to you since you seemed to know every last minute detail or perhaps you are just that good at writing and if so that’s great. I sympathised with the car crash, brought back all the terrible memories...lol...thanks

Hilary Custance at 12:32 on 30 April 2003  Report this post
Very lively and flows along with such ease. Comfortable to read. Cheers, Hilary

Stacey at 13:18 on 30 April 2003  Report this post
Thanks very much for the comments guys, I really appreciate them. Sometimes you just need that little push to let you know at least something your doing is right..lol.

roger at 13:52 on 30 April 2003  Report this post
Hi Stac,

Couldn't agree with Scott & Larry more...a really nice, smooth, funny piece of writing (though be careful who you tell these things to - I'm a foul-mouthed northerner and could easily have been offended!). Especially liked the bacon-rasher hair and, yes, hospitals do stink of school-dinners (amongst other things), don't they.

Lovely, light stuff.

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