The Night Breed
Fido has moved on to the team and he has already caused upset. He tactlessly suggested that Tizzy would benefit from going on the Atkins: “You can eat like a heifer without looking like one.”
I think I managed to smooth it out, and avoided the inevitable dash to cry in the Ladies, but Thrush didn’t help by joining in with, “Oh yes. She likes her food.”
I managed to hold on to a fragile peace until closing time when The Night Breed descended. I’d forgotten that the new evening temps were moving into our area today. My team were unprepared and were horrified when they moved in; especially when they stood over them while they packed away their headsets.
They were un-nerving, with celery-complexion and dark rims under their eyes.
Evening temps are usually a collection of social misfits who sleep and smoke home-grown skunk all day prior to interrupting customers watching Coronation Street with an indecipherable drawl, “Congratulations you have been selected …”
"Ok. Quickly pack up and leave. The evening team need your desks.” I stood, clapping my hands together like a knob.
In unison, the team looked back at me with ‘that look’; that look that Tony Blair must get from John Prescott every day; that look that says “you are selling us out again sucker.”