Today would be just another average day in Long Tall Ally’s office with keyboards rattling, people clearing their throats and the surreptitious clicking of mice/mouses all over the office as people furtively check Facebook except today is different, today is ‘Roll on Wednesday’ which in any office is a joyous occasion. Half way through the week Wednesday arrives not a moment to soon in a blaze of glory, we start thinking and talking about what we’re going to do on our parole time i.e ‘The Weekend’ and spirits seem to magically lift after the Tuesday afternoon blues. I have a friend who fails to see the beauty of Wednesday preferring to prefix it with ‘wanky’, a testament to the fact that it is *only* halfway through the week which to her is quite frankly not good enough whereas I can wholeheartedly say that Wednesday is my favourite in-between Tuesday and Thursday day of the whole week!
Wednesday in the office is delightful as the insanity of the working week finally sets in and the pressure drops back to a normal level leaving people admirably bonkers with little to do, a killer combination. So far this morning we’ve discussed how I am dressed like a private schoolgirl compared to my colleague being dressed like a roadie yesterday, what noises we would hyphenate our surnames with (I chose Boing! My colleague won with Ta-Daaahh!) and we’ve briefly touched on our disappointment at the aforementioned roadie dressing colleague not keeping up his end of the bargain and adhering to his self imposed ‘R.O.W’ dress code. That’s right, in our office ‘Roll on Wednesday’ is such a revered occasion it comes with it’s own style directive. It’s amazing how an off the cuff remark can be taken to heart by all and yet still not be adopted by its creator. He’s probably kicking himself at having been so witty and quick off the mark now that he is being lambasted for coming in wearing clothes but really I don’t think even our hippy dippy boss would have appreciated a colleague wandering around the office in the nip with just a slick of Mitchum under each arm to spare his dignity.
One of the side effects of being sliced and diced is that since surgery I have been windy in the extreme. The wind (from both ends) combined with the size of my arse means that every time I am on the move I worry that people are going to start shouting ‘Thar she blows!’ at me and grabbing their harpoons. I have the greatest desire to let go an almighty triumphant fart just to clear some of the pressure building up in my colon however that is neither dignified nor ladylike behaviour and so I keep squeezing my buttcheeks together to keep it in and to save the lives of those around me. The small mercy I have is that when aforementioned wind does escape it isn’t noxious, merely noisy however I am not sure my face would ever recover from the deep blush of embarrassment at being so base in front of colleagues. It’s been suggested that I try a natural powder remedy that you stir in to drinks however it apparently goes lumpy in cold drinks (yuck) and one wonders if it would open the floodgates so to speak and I’d blow off round the room like a popped balloon.