Journey through space to the Planet Fabulous, where the Ruler of the Universe will see you shortly.

Friday, August 29, 2008

Gifts

It was my birthday last week. Ryan said he didn't want to do me a surprise party because he was afraid my heart wouldn't be able to cope with the shock. Cheeky bugger. I tell you, I can't wait until he's old enough to be slapped in public without the police arresting me.

Well. Now I'm thirty-three years old. Which I clearly take against because its just past buying brightly-coloured interesting knitwear from high street stores, but not quite ordering stay-pressed action slacks from a catalogue. But the One True God Cher is clearly looking after me: not only did I get a text message off Girls Aloud this week wishing me birthday felicitations, but at work we've taken delivery of a new runner. Now the text message was hilarious - clearly automated, so it obviously came from Nicola, or the one we're referring to as 'the twelth Cylon'. Well, she's probably got a bluetooth connector under her bonnet, along with the strength of ten men and the inability to focus on anything without a look of cyborg indifference, bless.

Now to the other matter: the runner. For those of you poor people out of 'the industry', a runner is an entry-level functionary who is at the beck-and-call of a media department employed to fetch, carry and generally be flunked around. Usually they grab university leavers who want to get into the media via the back way, but this one... I think they had been trawling council estates for someone rough enough to stop Philipa Forrester get back into the building, and accidentally posted him to our department. I mean, he's just... well! He's all big trainers and loping gait, and chunky jewelery and surly expression. Looks like he'd beat you up if you pushed him too far, that kind of thing. And while this all sounds hideous on paper, for some reason this is pure primal pleasure to a Gentleman Who Owns More Than One Version of 'Gypsy' and it has me slipping off my office chair every time he walks past as my undercrackers look like a bulldog's been eating porridge in them.

Oh bless him, he's lovely. Him and his cheap haircut and non-existant skincare regime (which means we fickle wendys will have completely lost interest in him in five years time).

He's even come in with glasses on today. Aww! He thinks he's people!

9 comments:

Stepfordtart said...

Im nearly forty-fucking-two. Dont you go flaunting your thirty-three at ME, young man. (Can you tell its bothering me a teensy bit?). I shall send you my assistant if you get tired of your runner. He's posh, he moisturises, he has a Gucci handbag. He's also a whiny, sulky, hand-flapping, mincing shirker with a penchant for beefy builders but, hey, he's decorative. s x

Tickersoid said...

Sounds like everyone I shower with at the end of a day at the steel works.

Qenny said...

Pictures! We want pictures!

(and from tickers, too :)

Kathleen Bradean said...

Gotta love a thug boy. Enjoy him while you can.

Frank said...

Happy Belated Birthday! Damn you, though, for revealing the Final Cylon! Ronald D. Moore will dispatch a platoon of Centurions to "deal with" you forthwith!

Kezza said...

You know, just because he's lacking a skincare regime that may not be a bad thing for you, depending on what you put where you could come out of the experience nicely exfoliated. And remember they don't have to be smart, it only takes an IQ of 3 to grunt and even less to get a hardon and figure out what to do with it. Ah there is certainly something to be said of the boys from the projects, missing teeth, horrific english and questionable hygene included!

Kezza said...

Oh, yes and the original reason for my comment, before I got distracted was to wish you a happy birthday you delightful thing!

Sublimefemme said...

Happy b'day! Love your writing, and your very pink, very glittery blog.

Come visit me sometime at Sublimefemme Unbound!

Spike said...

Happy birthday dear Lee.