The office where I work is long and grey and dull, just like my working day, actually.
I have to work near the communal kitchen in our office.
As a result, I have to listen to this sort of shit.
Twerkin’ Nine ‘til Five.
Office Drone Steve and Office Drone Phil always brew tea together. Office Drone Phil is 45 and a washed up wreck. Office Drone Steve is 55 and sounds like The Last of the Summer Wine and is asleep most of the day.
“Now then, Steve.”
“*yawn* How’s tha’ doin’, Phil?”
“Not bad, not bad, I suppose. Apart form the sciatica. It’s killing me. My arse cheek feels like it’s being stabbed with a bread knife.”
“A stabbed arse cheek?”
“Doctor’s given us some exercises to do, but they don’t help.”
“Exercises, eh? What sort of exercises?”
“Well, I have to stretch and that, bend over, kind of move around…”
“Oh, a bit like that twerking?”
“Twerking. Y’know, twerking.”
“I don’t know twerking, Steve. I haven’t got a clue what you’re rattling on about.”
“Well, there were this ‘ere lass called Miley Cyrus on the telly and she were dancin’ in some rubber pants with that bloke who sang some song about rapin’ lasses or somesuch, an’ anyway she were doin’ that twerking dance that looks like this…”
Steve bends over stiffly and thrusts his sagging arse towards Phil’s groin. Phil stands still, stirring a mug of tea slowly, in an absent minded kind of way. Steve proceeds to twerk for Phil, gyrating his hips and jiggling his boney buttocks like only a middle aged man can. Phil observes with total seriousness. Neither men smile.
Steve finishes, stands upright with a grunt.
“That’s twerking, that is.”
“Oh. You live and learn, don’t you?”
Sandra is nearing fifty. She’s a big unit, tall and heavily built. She has a short, choppy haircut that is far too young looking for her hard face and wears sleeveless blouses that accentuate the impressive bulk of her arms. She is microwaving a Mediterranean vegetable quiche while talking to Fiona, a younger colleague.
“…so I says to him I says I says ‘Trevor, if you want to got to Tenerife again we’ll go to Tenerife again, I honestly couldn’t give a chuff. We know Tenerife, we like Tenerife, the kids like Tenerife, we’ll go to fuckin’ Tenerife again.’ I says to him I says ‘I don’t give a shit if Colin from accounts had a pop at you for going to the same resort year in, year out – I mean, where the fuck is he off to in August? Kat-man-fuckin’-doo or somethin’? Las fuckin’ Vegas? No, the silly twat’ll probably be off gettin’ piss wet through in the Brecon fuckin’ Beacons or something, with that stony faced cow he calls a wife, walking up hill and down dale with a map and fuckin’ compass! That’s not a holiday’, I says to him, and Trevor agrees of course coz he knows what’s fuckin’ good for him…”
Sandra stops talking. She has been waving her arms in an animated way, but now she stops.
“Fucking Hell, Fiona. Look at that.”
Sandra and Fiona look on with morbid fascination as Sandra’s mighty arm-meat continues to swing slowly under it’s own momentum, a great, heavy pendulum of womanflesh swaying ponderously beneath her arm, slowing, gently rippling to a halt.
Sandra lowers her arm.
“Bloody Hell. That was disgusting, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah. Made me feel sick.”
Fiona walks away. Sandra stares daggers after her. The microwave pings. The quiche is ready.
Sandra mutters. “You fucking bitch.”
Sinkside mutterings of unseen office drone lady.
“It’s always me who has to clean the bloody spoons, not a clean bloody spoon in the place. I make a tea, I wash a spoon, make a tea, wash half a dozen spoons, make a coffee, wash all the bloody spoons in the bloody office. Muggins, that’s me. Everyone’s bleedin’ spoon monkey. How bloody hard is it to clean a spoon once you’ve used it? What’s their bloody houses like, I’d like to know, coz if they leave spoons in this state their beds must be a sorry bloody sight! And it’s no use just trowing them in the bottom of the sink to get all dry and crusty because they get stained, and a stained spoon is a dirty spoon, and who cleans the bloody spoons! I bloody do!”
There is a sound of many spoons being thrown into the bin. A chubby woman from accounts marches away, tucking a clean spoon into her pocket. Office Drone Steve approaches, flicks on the kettle, yawns.
“Here, where are all the bloody spoons?”
Office Drone Steve & Office Drone Carl are talking. Office Drone Carl has a terrible stutter.
“I’ve been to the d-d-doctor, S-s-steve. Got my p-p-prostate checked out.”
“Oh. Why did you do that then?”
“Been h-h-having trouble p-p-peeing. It also hurts during int-int-int…..”
“Take your time.”
“Well done. What does that entail, then? Having that there prostate checked out? What do you get done?”
“Well, the d-d-doctor sticks h-h-his finger up your ar-ar-ar backside.”
“Sod that for a game of soldiers. I’d rather piss my pants and anyway, me and the missus gave up that silly stuff years ago. I’m not havin’ some fella putting his fingers up my wrong ‘un.”
“N-n-not fingers, Steve, just one finger.”
“Don’t matter. It’s the principal, isn’t it?”
“No. He’s a d-d-doctor, he knows w-w-what he’s doing. B-b-besides, he can make sure you haven’t got c-c-cancer.”
“What cancer? Arse cancer? Never heard of arse cancer.”
“No, p-p-prostate cancer. B-b-blokes get it all the t-t-time.”
“Probably catch it off doctor’s fingers.”
“I d-d-don’t think it w-w-works like that.”
“So have you got it then?”
“You m-m-mean p-p-prostate cancer, and I don’t k-k-know. My t-t-tests come back in a f-f-few weeks.”
“It might be too late by then. You might be dead.”
“What does it feel like then?”
“W-w-what? Prostate c-c-caner?”
“No. What does it feel like having a bloke put his finger up your bum?”
“Oh. I suppose it f-f-f-feels like d-d-d-oing a poo, only b-b-backwards.”
“Not so bad, then.”
“N-n-not really, no.”
I really, really wish I worked somewhere far away from the kitchen.
I hate the kitchen.