Andy was late. "Sorry, I'm late. Injured dog."
I'm sorry?
"I said, sorry I'm late, there was an injured dog on the track."
I see.
"I was stuck on the bloody train for an hour and the tannoy said there was an injured dog on the track. They had to call the vet. They couldn't move it, and the train driver said he was sorry but he couldn't drive over it as there was a good chance it was still alive. You couldn't drive over a dog that was alive, you see."
Oh. So would he have driven over a person, then? Fine. I'll just go and make some coffee.
You get days like that, sometimes. You get good days. I remember one particular good day. It was Stephen's birthday and I hadn't got him anything, but I hadn't really needed to as he was just a friendly colleague, rather than a close pal. I was standing at the road crossing when a car pulled up and a man thrust a bouquet of flowers into my hand and drove off without a word. I skipped back into the office, and presented them to Stephen. "Happy Birthday". It appears that Impulse body spray does actually work.
You get bad days. Otherwise known as Bad Hair Days. Black Noise. Everything going to Hell at once. I remember the day I started smoking again after quitting for nine months (I've since quit again). I lost my job, my home, my gran and two of my acquaintances in the space of two weeks. The final straw was when Jim Thirlwell was late for the interview I had been looking forward to for months. Then, when he finally showed, he was a really scary individual. Not unkind or unpleasant, but quite obviously one wave short of a shipwreck.
You get weird days. Not good, not bad, just weird. Peter Hooton called, you know, the guy from The Farm. "Hello? I just wanted to know what box to tick on that form you sent me. Right, okay, and who do I return it to?" That sort of thing. I bit my lip and refused to let on that I knew who he was. Fine, I replied, just sign and date it, and if you could post it back to me as soon as you can. Just as he was about to hang up, I allowed myself the one indulgence.
"May I ask you a question? Only,
I've always wanted to know if the rumour was true."
"What rumour?"
"Apparently, your office answerphone
message used to run '...There is no-one here to take your
call. Please don't leave your name or a message as we have absolutely
no intention of calling you back and you'll only feel insecure.'"
It was indeed a true story, I'd read
in Select. Peter explained it was just their sense of humour.
I informed him that I'd been asked by my mates to impersonate the BT female
telephone voice and record the same message onto their answerphones.
He sounded impressed. I told everyone, after he'd hung up, that the
guy from The Farm had called. We then had a row as to how many of
their songs were actually any good. "Groovy Train" was overplayed,
but "Stepping Stone" was brilliant.
Little Steve is getting married.
"You're only five," I told him. Okay, so he's only a couple of years'
younger than me, but that's still pretty young.
"When are you getting married?"
Five weeks.
"How long have you been engaged?"
Two weeks.
"How long have you been together?"
Six months.
"What did your parents say?"
They don't know.
The day was starting to degenerate.
Fast. I went over to Nancy, that last bastion of wisdom in a crazy
world. "Hey Nance," I said, "I need to talk to someone sane."
I stopped. There was a curious
object on her desk. It was like a snowglobe, only it didn't have
any snow in it. Just a small glass sphere, with a tiny plastic cow
in it. It was a plastic cow and flower arrangement inside a glass
sphere. "What is it?" I enquired.
"It's symbolic."
"Of what?"
She began to tell me, in a very matter-of-fact
voice that it represented Armageddon and some huge conspiracy. What
conspiracy? Well, Armageddon of course. That and the Millennium
Dome. Oh, and don't forget the Floating Head of Death.
"Sorry," I began, "You've lost me."
The Floating Head of Death for the Millennium
Dome. Aren't you paying any attention?
I stopped. I looked at her.
Then my brain began to ache. What was she talking about? Was
it that thing about the Death Cult or something? She began to laugh
her famous cackle.
"Hey Emma!"
I stared straight ahead with a vaguely
bemused expression on my face.
"I'm trying to out-weird Joanna," she
continued, smiling, "And I think I may have succeeded."