The
Magic Circle
One
She walks in, teeth grinding, smiling like a
Cheshire cat on speed. For a while she
just stands there and he can’t understand why she’s here; she never visits; and
then it dawns on him; she’s here about the chair and the email he sent out
earlier has come back to piss him off.
Dick smiles, “You’re an unwelcome surprise,”
“I think we need to clear the air about the
chair,” she says with a good dose of superficial charm.
Dick, for his part, wonders why she can’t
drop the apple polishing act even when she’s with someone who clearly fucking
hates her, “I have my chair,” he replies, “this conversation can serve no
further purpose.”
“Well we’re having this conversation.”
He hates the fact she misses the movie
reference.
“I didn’t take your chair,” she continues,
“facilities…”
“Right, okay, good, anything else?”
The interruption sets her teeth grinding to
overload; Dick wonders how they’ve survived the torment; they look perfect.
“You found the chair in my room, I know,
but..”
“Fuck off!”
This sets her back, literally, into the door. For Dick this is an odd occurrence; he’s
never seen anybody literally knocked off their feet, and for a moment he
imagines her to be a badly programmed robot.
“We haven’t heard the last of this,” she
says.
“Blimey, she’s banal,” thinks Dick and then
says, “I look forward to discussing further with you when you can lick your own
arse.” He turns back to his computer and
listens for her exit but that glorious sound doesn’t arrive. Turning to confront her, Dick is surprised to
find her gone. “Fucking Robot,” he says.
His email inbox bleeps.
From:
Maria Bustemante
To:
Richard Springer
CC:
Subject:
Tweedledee.
Fucking
never guess. Tweedle-fucking-dee just
came to see me about our conversation on Facebook. She told me I was running the risk of getting
FIRED if I openly put “anti-work” stuff in the “public domain.”
“She’s
only looking out for me” FUCK OFF! Then
she offered me a fucking biscuit.
Cunt! In that cutesy pie voice of
hers. A BISCUIT! DIGESTIVE!!!!!!!!
M
From:
Richard Springer
To:
Maria Bustemante
CC:
Subject:
RE: Tweedledee (+fucking dum)
Fuck
that. Tweedledum came to see me about
the chair. Are they tag-teaming us? I think she’s a robot by the way with her teeth. Plus; major psychopath!
D
Five minutes later, Bustemante rushes in.
“Aren’t you supposed to be teaching?” Dick, used to his friend rushing in when
she’s supposed to be elsewhere, says this with a good degree of sarcasm seeping
through his voice.
“Tweedle-fucking-dee man, where the fuck does
she get her CHEEK!” ignoring Dicks
concerns, Bustemante sits down and smiles, “Rum?”
“At nine-thirty in the morning?” A raised eyebrow.
“Why not?”
“Indeed.”
The rum poured and down the hatch in one,
Dick says, “another?”
But Bustamante shakes her head, “Nope!
Teaching!” And she strolls off muttering some shit Dick can’t quite hear.
Dick sets to thinking about Tweedledum AKA
Betsy Ribbons. A teacher; totally up her
own arse; wearer of clothes two sizes too small for a four year old; owner of a
face that screams drugs; a course-coordinator, responsible for two bullshit
subjects, yet she acts like a queen; her and her cutesy-friend Tweedledee AKA
Kitty Mvula.
“Kitty Mvula?” thinks Dick, “made up!”
Bleep
From:
Harriot Kent
To:
all a-level staff
CC:
a-level support staff
Subject:
Meeting at 4.00
Dear
All,
There
will be a meeting, later, in B32 to discuss staff training requirements.
Thank
you,
Harriot
Kent
Head
of A-Levels
“Another fucking meeting,” thinks Dick. Harriot, AKA The Boss, loves her
meetings. Dick hates meetings; But today
he’ll attend; for he wants to stare at Dum just to freak her out.
Bustemante rushes in, “another fucking
meeting.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” reports Dick,
“you know we should be used to them by now?”
“You going?”
“Uh huh, I want to stare at Betsy; maybe even
flash a wink in her direction; really freak her out like.” Dick demonstrates
his wink which includes a little lick of the lips as if his eyelid is attached
to his tongue.
“Gross!”
“Indeed,” Dick repeats the wink, “but first,
a little fortification.” The rum makes a
second appearance and is dispatched with pleasure.
“You drunk yet?” enquires Maria.
“At quarter to ten? Hell no” Dick considers the situation,
“Aren’t you supposed to be teaching?”
“Yup,” she says and sits down. “When are you going to tidy this
shithole?”
“Is it a shithole?”
“Yes”
“There’re only a few unwashed test tubes,” he
says, pointing theatrically with his hands, “a few petri dishes hither and
thither with nice bacterial growth; don’t touch those by the way; apart from
that…”
He’s interrupted as Betsy storms into the
room. She’s aghast, though, at the
presence of Maria, and for a moment Dick thinks she might choke on the surprise;
he hopes she will.
“It’s okay Busty,” says Dick, “she often
comes in to look at me but I keep telling her I’m married.”
“Busty?”
Ignoring Busty’s complaints Dick turns to Betsy
and says, “Why doesn’t your camel toe ever quit?”
In Dickensian times you would call him a man
of grand deportment; you would consider him wealthy; you would listen to his
every word in fake reverence; you would stand shoulder to shoulder with others,
brimming with jealously; you would talk about him in hushed tones and guarded
words; you would call him great. In
today’s times, you would call him fat and you would call him a twat. A ditty you would do well to remember, for,
today, in B32, with its plastic chairs and plastic tables and plastic staff;
with its bleach and vinegar odour, riddled with the sweat of a dozen bodies;
with its silent air suffocating the expectant crowd, he is about to prove it
right.
The fat he proves easily as he rolls into the
classroom. He looks like Jupiter dressed
in a suit, all orange and red blotches; plenty of time spent on the course; on
the beach; on the veranda; in Miranda; and with the whiskey; but most of all
with the salt and the beef and the pork and its crackling. A more grotesque creature could not be found
sculpted to the side of a gothic cathedral.
Harriot Kent greets his arrival like she’s a
parrot having an orgasm.
“Staff, Staff,” she exults, “today we are
honoured to have Sir Mite with us; he has some things to discuss.”
The staff react like they’ve been told the
price of chips has gone up. Except for
Tweedle-cunting-dee and Tweedle-cunting-dum, Dick notices, who conduct their
own ripple of applause. Betsy’s teeth grind
as usual and as Kitty smiles her chin retracts into her neck and briefly glows
blue.
“What the fuck?” thinks Dick but Jupiter has
begun his soliloquy.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he speaks, his Scouse
accent primed with saliva, his lips ejaculating parabolic missiles of spit into
the fawning Tweedles, “It has been a difficult year here at Timperley College;
a tough year; a difficult year; a very tough and difficult year. The current economic climate has damaged our
business model; scattered it; destroyed it; kept us awake at night; shivering;
clinging to hope; longing for some light at the end of a very long and tough
and tunnel. Yet, that light has not
come. It was there at one point; blurry;
like squinting; but it faded. So, I have
some grave news. It is not news that a
man delivers lightly. It is not news
that a man delivers with any great happiness.
It is not news you are going to like.
But it is news that has to be delivered, none the less, and so here it
is. We’re downsizing.” He pauses to gauge a reaction but none
comes. Happy with this outcome, he rolls
out.
“Thank you, Sir Jupiter,” fawns Harriot, “as
always, great, inspirational words.”
Turning to her colleagues, clapping and rubbing her hands together, she
continues, “right, training needs.”
“Can I just say,” interjects Ms Kibitzer, her
pruned face conducting a lecherous smile, “inspirational speech.”
“Thank you, Ms Kibitzer,” says Harriot.
“Thank you, Harriot,” says Ms Kibitzer.
“Oh fuck off licking each other’s cunts,”
thinks Dick.
During the foreplay, Maria has been quietly
fuming, “Just exactly WHAT was inspirational about that speech?” she asks.
This causes some disturbance amongst the Dees
and the Kents and the Kibitzers whose heads all turn in harmony to face her.
“His speech was about downsizing,” says Betsy
and turning to look Dick up and down, “downsizing is something some of us could
take for inspiration.”
Unable to control himself, Dick shouts, “oh
fuck off Dum you camel cunt.”
Exactly the wrong thing to say as the ensuing
commotion takes some time to control.
Only after Harriot ejaculates twice and Kibitzer ejaculates thrice, does
the turmoil return to zero.
“Dick,” says Harriot.
“I’ll have you up on a grievance for calling
me that.” replies Dick, smiling.
“Oh but it’s your name, Dick,” says Kibitzer.
“Indeed, but she made it sound like an
insult.”
“Oh you really are an insufferable fool,
Dick,” says Kibitzer.
“And you’re an insufferable cunt,” thinks
Dick who hates Kibitzer; the biggest arse licker around and at 3 foot 2 inches tall,
the perfect height.
“Can we just get back to training needs,”
interjects Harriot, “I want this to be over quickly; Toto is getting hungry.”
“Oh he’s so adorable,” the Tweedles say in
unison.
“Adorable,” agrees Kibitzer.
Many a time Dick would have discovered
Kibitzer in his room, on a Friday afternoon, drinking wine and discussing with
him all things TV and movie, which He’d enjoyed. I mean, wine!
Babylon 5 (discussed at
length), Frasier (quoted at length),
and The Big Lebowski. It was the latter that had caused concerns,
for Kibitzer had pronounced Lebowski, Lebovski with a definite vee sound. “She’s a complete bullshitter,” Dick had
thought. The next week she’d called B5’s captain Sheridan, Captain
Cherrydan. “Something is definitely amiss here.” But it was when she’d described that bit in Frasier when Frasier has to go to
Aberdeen to find the child murderer that Dick finally dismissed her as nothing
more than a common nincompoop. “Is she
thinking of Taggert?” He’d thought.
Anyhow, those days had ended with a screaming
row over the state of his room.
She had walked in looking extremely
small. I mean, she was small anyway but
on this day she was wearing a baggy dress that made her look like a beanpole
scarecrow in a housecoat. Her face,
usually wrinkled like an old man’s butt, was more shrivelled than ever; lips
pursed, eyes squinting; nose pointing, she had launched into an angry tirade.
“I’ve just been meeting with Harriot,”
“Congratulations,” Dick had said.
“Less of the humour, Dick” she had replied,
“Harriot’s in a state, an absolute state.
She’s in trouble and she’s ready to pass the buck; and do you know who
she’s passed it to? You! Via me!
But ultimately you!”
“Congratulations to me then.” Dick had said,
“I receive the buck gracefully.”
“DICK!” He’d never heard her shout before
and, indeed, her shout was more of a shrill squeak like a mouse caught in the
jaws of a tiger, “stop it, please stop it.
Harriot’s in a state; an absolute state.
The chief examiner, THE chief examiner, for English, has been in this
room and do you know what he thought of it?
He thought of it to be the most disgusting workplace he’d ever seen and
he actually described it as unprofessional.
Oh Dick! I’ve never been
described as unprofessional.”
“And you still haven’t,” Dick had made the
mistake of smiling, “the rooooooom,” waving his hands theatrically about, “was
described as unprofessional.”
“DICK!” more squealing, “stop taking this as
a joke. Harriot is upset that you
haven’t kept on top of it and she’s coming to inspect.”
“She doesn’t need to inspect,” Dick had
replied, “the Chief Examiner for English has inspected on her behest. Quite why the Chief Examiner for English was
in a Science Prep Room is beyond my comprehension; maybe he’s an idiot.”
“Oh Dick!” and here she had feigned a
Dickensian swoon, rocking forth and back and side to side and holding her hand
to her head like a badly paid actress in an off-broadway production of Oliver
the musical; and Dick had thought, then, that here was a woman who had a
personality to suit the situation, to mould the situation to her own needs so
she would come out looking less stupid than everybody else, “you can’t talk
about the Chief Examiner…”
“For English,” Dick had interrupted.
“Oh Dick,” and then Kibitzer had wiped her
dry eyes and, keeping up the impression of a mouse, had pattered from the room.
Dick had only had time to think, “Fuck me,”
when Harriot had come in looking like Tom Thumb dressed in a Victorian
schoolmistress’ outfit; and they’d had the same conversation, only this time
Dick had smiled even more and Harriot had gone full swoon and collapsed into a
chair.
That was two weeks ago and he’d heard nothing
more about his room.
“Dick,”
says Harriot, “your training needs are clear and they have just become
clearer.”
“How to arse lick?” enquires Dick, “How to
get down on my knees like Kitty and Betsy and Kibitzer…”
“Oh Dick!” cries Ms Kibitzer, “please use my first name or Ms but not just my surname. You make me sound like a common soccer
player.”
“Get down on my knees,” Dick continues, “like
Ms Kitty and Ms Betsy and Kibitzer and polish you till you shine like a golden
apple?”
Flustered, Harriot picks up her small black
note book and says, “I’m writing your name down, I’m writing it down, I’m
noting your name down, right down, I think it’s best if you leave, we’ll set
your training for you in your absence but you can expect HR to be in touch.”
And Human Resources get in touch about an
hour later.
Bleep.
From:
Betty Jones (formally Jownes)
To:
Richard Springer
CC:
Harriot Kent
Subject:
Meeting
Dear
Richard,
You
are required to attend a meeting with HR tomorrow morning at 9am in Room HR7.
Thank
you for your attention
Betty
Jones (formally Jownes)
“Room HR7,” thinks Dick, “How many rooms do
they fucking need?”
“It’s not really any business of yours as to
how many rooms we need.” says Betty Jones, looking all plump and tanned and
just like the kind of ass Sir Mite might force his way into, “but, just for
kicks, we have 9.”
“Nine?” replies Dick, “for a couple of
staff?”
“Can we just get on with this meeting?” asks
Harriot, looking awfully resplendent in a pink and grey hat and grey and pink
dress, “I don’t want this to go on any longer than it has to; I have five other
meetings this morning alone.”
“Yeah, I bet at your prompting,” thinks
Dick. Turning to Betty he says, “are all
your rooms like this?”
“Like what?”
“Drab.”
“What’s drab about it?” asks Betty.
What’s drab about a circular plywood table
with three plywood chairs sitting on grey carpets, surrounded by grey walls
with no windows or pictures or anything but a small grey light switch? Dick simply shrugs.
“Please,” says Harriot, tapping her watch three
times, “my next meeting is with Kibitzer on the other side of campus in 9
minutes and I can’t run, it’ll mess with my symmetry.”
“Oh I’m afraid it might last longer than 9
minutes Harriot,” warns Betty, “best you ring Ms Kibitzer and reschedule.”
Harriot looks shocked like she’s been slapped
in the face with a kipper, “Reschedule?
But when? When will I squeeze it
in? Over lunch? Yes over Lunch. Kibitzer doesn’t eat lunch; well, except for
those crackers. But she does awfully
hate it when I reschedule. I suppose the
only thing to do is ring her and test the field,” and with this she gets up and
leaves the room.
“Should we start without her?” asks Dick.
“Oh no we can’t do that,” says Betty, “there
are rules to these things you know; I’ll just check my email whilst she’s out,”
and with that Betty leaves the room too, leaving Dick, alone, in HR7, with the
grey walls and the grey carpets and the plywood table and the plywood chairs.
Five minutes of silence pass by before Dick
gets bored. He takes his phone out to
browse the vast amusement of Twitter and Facebook but, on doing so, notices a
large hole has developed in the crotch of his jeans.
“Now how the FUCK did that happen?” he asks
out loud just as Harriot returns to the room.
“You really can’t help yourself can you
Dick,” she says, “All this swearing and your room…”
“Well, I thought I was alone,” he says,
“How’s our dear friend?”
“Toto is just wonderful,” she smiles, and
looking at the ceiling as though Heaven itself has just opened up before her,
she says, “I love him, he’s my baby.”
Dick revels in the amusement of that moment
silently, although he allows a small smile to appear on his lips.
Betty walks back in, looks at Dick, and says,
“right, should we wipe that smile off your lips and start the meeting?”
“Yes,” says Harriot, “meetings, meetings,
meetings.” She says this as though she’s
more in love with meetings than she is with Toto. She probably arranges meetings with
Toto. “Now don’t forget, Toto,” she’ll
say to him, in a voice suggesting possession by the late Barbara Woodhouse, “We
have a meeting later about what you want for dinnery poosery.” Or, “don’t
forget Toto, the meeting later about you going all humpery pumpery on my leg.”
“Good,” Betty says, “I trust everything is
alright with Kibitzer, Harriot, because we have a lot to discuss and I don’t
want her butting in or phoning etcetera.”
Harriot nods, “Oh yes, everything is fine on
that account. I changed our meeting
today which was supposed to start at nine fifteen to a time of Kibitzer’s
choosing which she chose as seven am tomorrow.
She gets the early bus so she can avoid the traffic and the school
youngsters you see…”
Dick can’t help but think he’s trapped in a
never ending story and asks, “should I have brought a lunch box, maybe a
newspaper or an Xbox with a colour television?”
Ignoring Dick, Betty continues, “we’re here
today, Dick, because you’re in danger of losing your job.”
“Excellent,” says Dick, “where do I sign?”
“Please Dick,” says Harriot, “people don’t
just get sacked.”
“No,” agrees Betty, “with a series of
measures we hope unwanted staff will be encouraged to leave by their own
accord.”
Dick, shocked at this statement can only
guffaw. Is this what they did in HR;
plot the demise of staff by making them feel miserable? On the face of it, he guessed, it shouldn’t
come as much of a surprise. He couldn’t
even count on his fingers and toes the number of people who’d quit, in the last
year alone, due to stress and illness and, in the case of one poor colleague, a
heart attack in Sir Mite’s office (some people put that event to an
extraordinary gangbang that had taken place between Mite, his mates and his
harem. Things had got frantic and said
dead colleague, unable to keep pace, had suffered a coronary explosion at the
point of ecstasy. Who would spread such
wild rumours?).
“Let me guess,” says Dick, “you’re here,
we’re here, to give me a list that will force me to jump?”
“Not at all,” says Betty, “Not at all.”
“I have to sign in,” says Dick pointing at
his index finger, “I have to make notes about what I do; I have to sign out; I
have to label things; I have to tidy up; I have to miss team meetings but find
out what happened in them in one to one meetings with Harriot; I have to bend
over and take it up the arse, I mean bum, because I’m not allowed to fucking
swear; I have to log what I have done at lunch time and at the end of every
day; I am not allowed to go near senior management; I am, and this is actually
on my action plan, to never forget to add Ms to Bitch Kibitzer’s name.”
“This place is a fucking JOKE,” says Maria.
“Get this, though,” says Dick, reaching
finger number ten “I have to make a map, a fucking map, of the prep room and the
labs so people can find things without me.
Now, to me, that sounds like they’re preparing to chop me off at the
employment line.”
“What the FUCK,” asks Maria, “is the employment
line?”
“Dunno, just thought it sounded good,” and,
considering whether it actually did sound good, Dick says, “sounded shit didn’t
it?”
Maria simply nods.
“I just wish we could get at them,” says
Dick, “before we leave, you know, expose some of them for their gangbanging and
sexual deviancy.”
“Before WE leave?” says Maria, “and, also,
just because you make up a story about gangbanging and sexual deviancy doesn’t
make it true.”
“Of course it’s true,” says Dick, “forcing
yourself in and out of an arse like Betty Jone’s is a physical task for a man
half Bob’s age. No wonder his heart went,” Dick puts his finger behind his
cheek and releases it from his mouth to make a popping sound.
“Anyway,” says Maria, “your wish may come
true.”
Raising one eyebrow Dick says, “how?”
“Dum left her computer open, guess she has
the right name, and this was on it.”
Maria hands a copy of an email to Dick who
peruses it with increasing interest and then horror.
From:
Betty Jones (formally Jownes)
To:
Magic Circle
CC:
Subject:
Meeting
Usual
time
Usual
place
Up
for discussion:
Kitty
Mvula’s problems
Chief
examiner for English’s visit
Richard
Springer’s exit strategy.
“Richard Springer’s exit strategy?” says
Dick, flapping the email in Maria’s face “Richard fucking Springer’s fucking
exit strategy?”
“You’re not supposed to swear,” warns Maria,
wagging her finger playfully.
“Oh fuck off,” says Dick, “and what the FUCK
is this Magic Circle shit? Tell me what
the fuck is that?”
“Well,” says Maria, sitting down, opening the
rum cupboard, pouring herself a rum and downing it in one, “THAT is the most
interesting thing on there. We already
knew that you were getting pushed out…”
“Yeah,” interrupts Dick, “we worked that out just before you gave me this email,
remember… Pour me a rum.”
“True,” she replies pouring herself and Dick
some rum and spilling some on the table, “but now we know that, now we’re aware
you’re shafted, surely the more interesting thing is the FACT that there is a
little group of people here who refer to themselves as The Magic Circle.”
Looking at the rum, Dick says, “you know
you’re gonna have to clean that up? The
email says the English Chief is coming back and he’s gonna go supernova if he
sees that mess you’ve made.”
Fuck the Chief Examiner for English
though. I mean, it had never truly sunk
in that he was on his way out, but now it was official, written down in The
Magic Circle’s email, “Richard Springer’s exit strategy.” Jesus, it made it sound like they wanted to
kill him. Maybe they did want to kill
him; him and Kitty. “Kitty Mvula’s
problems.”
“Hold the fuck up,” says Dick, “Kitty Mvula’s
problems!”
“Yup,” says Maria, hiccupping, “now THAT’S
fucking interesting.”
Kitty Mvula played with a band. A very good band. The best band you ever did see. She played keyboards. There was another keyboardist and another
keyboardist and a drummer and a vocalist who sounded an awful lot like Lionel
Ritchie but looked an awful lot like Sinead O’Connor. They were simply wonderful; although Dick
thought they sounded a lot like Kraftwerk
as remixed by a two year old with an electronic xylophone. They had an album which had gone nuclear in
the Swedish town of Marstrand where
all but one of its 1432 inhabitants had been to see the band at the local
sailing club during the winter of ’12. By
all accounts they’d sold 23 copies that night.
A mighty achievement and, as Kitty would have it, “23 copies is 23
families is 150 people; 150 people all listening to the wonderful Sit Down on your Doorstep by The Strangers on the Shore.”
Dick had forever thought that sentence to be
one of the most ludicrous he’d ever heard and he couldn’t stand it when the
fucking Strangers on the fucking Shore came up in conversation.
Like this morning, in the staff room, with
it’s perfectly lined chairs, and perfectly lined tables, with its scent of
wildflowers and honeysuckle, with the gentle tap, tap, tap of keyboards and a
ping of the microwave as someone warms a fruit and nut bar for breakfast, with
its 20 staff all sat in silence, possibly afraid to speak, in deference to
Harriot and her need to work, work, work.
For Harriot can’t bear anything out of order; “a lack of symmetry goes
against all my principles that order is best, and neatness and above all,” she
would say.
But, somehow, amongst these fascist
principles. Kibitzer sits at a desk that looks like a fly tip. Papers stacked on top of books on top of a
keyboard, a monitor barely visible, cracker wrappings scattered hither and
thither, coffee mugs balanced, in defiance of gravity, at the edge of the
abyss, threatening to tumble to the carpet, destroying its spotlessness with Nescafe Home Blend. And all in plain sight of Harriot; how does
Kibitzer get away with it?
Kitty breaks the silence, “and last night The
Strangers on the shore were simply adored by the crowd,” she says, referring to
her band in the 3rd person as if she played the keyboards whilst
having an out of body experience, “we played all The Strangers on the Shore’s
tracks,” she continues, “and, I have to say, it’s the best reception The
Strangers on the Shore have ever had in Manchester. As you know,” she says, looking around and nodding
as though everybody does know, “Manchester is the toughest crowd.”
“Well,” says Dick, “Manchester is a town of music lovers.”
Kitty’s chin flashes blue in anger and she
rants off about how Manchester hasn’t really had genuinely good music since 10cc and that was, “like 100 years ago.”
But Dick hears none of it for Kitty Mvula’s
problem is right there on her chin. Her
blue fucking chin.
“Her chin flashed blue,” says Dick to Maria,
firmly ensconced back in his freshly cleaned, dusted, and scrubbed prep room
“fucking blue,” he says pointing at Maria.
“This place sparkles dude,” replies Maria,
“oh, and, what the fuck?”
More slowly, as if explaining to somebody who
doesn’t speak his language and, on top of this, doesn’t have a brain, Dick
says, “Her. Chin. Flashed. Blue.”
“Her chin flashed blue?”
“Her chin flashed blue,” for the third
fucking time, “and what’s more, Betsy noticed too and tried to warn Kitty about
it. She did that kind of flapping her
own chin thing. You know, like sending a
secret message about the chin.” Dick
demonstrates by flapping his own chin.
Maria gives Dick a look of pure
incredulousness, smiles and ruffles his hair.
“Yeah, well, read this.” says Dick, pointing
to his computer screen.
From:
Betsy Ribbons
To:
Richard Springer
cc:
Subject:
FWD: Meeting about Dick Springer
Maria looks up, “Why is Betsy sending you
emails.”
“She isn’t,” replies Dick, smiling, “I set it
up so her emails are forwarded to me.
You’re not the only one who can take advantage of Tweedledum leaving her
computer open.”
“All very well,” says Maria, smiling back,
“until she looks at her SENT folder.”
“I got that covered,” says Dick.
“How?”
“Just read the fucking email.”
From: Betsy Ribbons
To:
Richard Springer
cc:
Subject:
FWD: Meeting about Dick Springer
From:
Betty Jones (Betty Jownes)
To:
Magic Circle
Cc:
Subject:
Meeting about Dick Springer
All,
It
appears as though Dick Springer has become a bigger problem than first thought
as Betsy thinks he knows about Kitty Mvula’s problem. The meeting will now be about the Dick
Springer problem.
We’ll
discuss the Chief Examiner for English at a later date.
Thanks,
Betty
Jones (formally Jownes)
Maria looks up and says, “and you think
Kitty’s problem is her flashing blue chin.”
She says “flashing blue chin” with
incredulity which annoys Dick for he wonders why his friend isn’t as excited by
this as he is. But, on further
inspection, he realises that flashing blue chins and secret meetings, meetings
by intra-college weirdo swingers’ club The Magic Circle, is a little
ridiculous.
Nevertheless, he did see Kitty’s chin flash
blue, twice, and he isn’t about to give it up.
“You know what, Maria,” he says, “play along
with me on this one and I’ll give you a gift.
That email is not the only email Betsy unwittingly forwarded.”
From: Betsy Ribbons
To:
Richard Springer
cc:
Subject:
FWD: Us
From: Greg Jackanory
To:
Betsy Ribbons
Cc:
Subject:
Us
Dearest Betsy,
How I
dote upon you but I fear I have fair ruined our relationship after I complained
about our mechanical sex last night. I
am deeply sorry I said it, even though, in all honesty, I can say that you are
a little bit mechanical during love.
Maybe if we went to a sex doctor?
Or a relationship doctor? But I
think a sex doctor would be best; after all, they have years of experience, not
just of sex but of telling people how to do sex so it is a little more human.
But
how I dote upon you and how I would hate that this small mishap would have a
detrimental effect on our burgeoning relationship.
Yours
dotingly,
Yours,
yours, yours,
Greg
“Holy. Fucking. Shit!” says Maria, skipping
around the room, “HOLY, FUCKING, SHIT. A rum to celebrate!”
“Abso-fucking-lutely,” says Dick
“Tmesis,” says Maria.
“Bless you,” replies Dick and pointing at
Greg’s name on the email, “he writes like he’s stuck in a Victorian novel.”
“Oh yes,” says Maria, “many a time I’ve
picked up a Victorian novel and marvelled at the descriptions of mechanical sex
and sex doctors. Just because a man uses
the word DOTE, doesn’t make him a Victorian.”
