looks almost as
disgusted as I feel. Bridget has just damned
us—everyone else, in fact—with faint praise. I did "as well as could
be
expected" and need extra supervision before I can be let out of the
kindergarten to go pee-pee. Derek and Andy and everyone else involved
get to have Bridget poke her long, inquisitive nose into their
procedural compliance and see if they're exercising due diligence. As
for Bridget, if she turns up anything that even whiffs of negligence
she gets to look good to the top brass by cleaning shop, and anyone who
disagrees is being "grossly unprofessional." Office politics, the
Laundry remix.
"My head aches," I mutter. "And my body is
telling me that it's two in the morning. Do you have any more
questions? If you don't mind, I'm going to go home and lie down for a
day or two."
"Take all week," Andy says dismissively. "We'll
have everything sorted out when you get back." I stand up fast; in my
current state I don't think to ask what strange and perverted
definition of "sorted" he's using.
"I'd like to see a written report of your trip,"
Bridget adds before I can close the door behind me. "Documented in
accordance with Operations Manual Four, chapter eleven, section C. No
need to hurry, but I want it on my desk by the end of next week."
Evidence, Written, Bureaucrats for the Malicious
Use of. I head for home, anticipating a long hot bath and then eighteen
hours in the sack.
Home is much as I left it
seven days ago. There's a pile of bills slowly turning brown at
the corner propping up one of the kitchen table legs. The bin is
overflowing, the kitchen sink likewise, and Pinky hasn't cleaned out
his bread-maker since the last time he used it. I look in the fridge
and find a limp tea bag and a carton of milk that's good for another
day or so before it starts demanding the vote, so I make myself a mug
of tea and sit at the kitchen table playing Tetris on my palmtop.
Coloured blocks fall like snowflakes in my mind,
and I drift for a while. But reality keeps intruding: I've got a week's
washing in my suitcase, another week of washing in my room, and while
Pinky and the Brain are at work I can get to the washer/dryer.
(Assuming nobody's left a dead hamster in it again.)
Deliberately ignoring the bills, I get up and
drag my suitcase upstairs. My room is much the way I left it, and I
suddenly realise that I hate living this way: hate the second-hand
furniture designed by aliens from Planet Landlord, hate sharing my
personal space with a couple of hyperintelligent slobs with behavioural
problems and explosive hobbies, hate feeling my future possibilities
hemmed in by my personal vow of poverty—the signature on my Laundry
warrant card. I drag the suitcase into my room through a fog of fatigue
and mild despair, then open it and begin to sort everything into piles
on the floor.
Something snuffles behind me.
I spin round so fast I nearly levitate, hand
fumbling for a mummified monkey's paw that isn't there—then
recognition
cuts in and I breathe again. "You startled me! What are you doing in
there?"
Just the top of her head is visible. She blinks
at me sleepily. "What does it look like?"
I consider my next words carefully. "Sleeping in
my bed?"
She pulls down the duvet far enough to yawn,
mouth pink and grey in the dim light that filters through the new
curtains. "Yeah. Heard you were due back today so I, mmm, pulled a
sickie. Wanted to see you."
I sit down on the side of the bed. Mhari's hair
is mousy-brown with blonde highlights she puts in it every few weeks;
it's cut in short flyaway locks that tangle around my fingers when I
run my hand over her scalp. "Really?"
"Yeah, really." A bare arm reaches out of the
bedding, wraps around my waist, and pulls me down. "Been missing you.
Come here."
I'm meaning to sort my dirty clothing into piles
for the washing machine, but instead all my clothing ends up in a heap
in the middle of the floor, and I end up in a
heap under Mhari, who is naked under
disgusted as I feel. Bridget has just damned
us—everyone else, in fact—with faint praise. I did "as well as could
be
expected" and need extra supervision before I can be let out of the
kindergarten to go pee-pee. Derek and Andy and everyone else involved
get to have Bridget poke her long, inquisitive nose into their
procedural compliance and see if they're exercising due diligence. As
for Bridget, if she turns up anything that even whiffs of negligence
she gets to look good to the top brass by cleaning shop, and anyone who
disagrees is being "grossly unprofessional." Office politics, the
Laundry remix.
"My head aches," I mutter. "And my body is
telling me that it's two in the morning. Do you have any more
questions? If you don't mind, I'm going to go home and lie down for a
day or two."
"Take all week," Andy says dismissively. "We'll
have everything sorted out when you get back." I stand up fast; in my
current state I don't think to ask what strange and perverted
definition of "sorted" he's using.
"I'd like to see a written report of your trip,"
Bridget adds before I can close the door behind me. "Documented in
accordance with Operations Manual Four, chapter eleven, section C. No
need to hurry, but I want it on my desk by the end of next week."
Evidence, Written, Bureaucrats for the Malicious
Use of. I head for home, anticipating a long hot bath and then eighteen
hours in the sack.
Home is much as I left it
seven days ago. There's a pile of bills slowly turning brown at
the corner propping up one of the kitchen table legs. The bin is
overflowing, the kitchen sink likewise, and Pinky hasn't cleaned out
his bread-maker since the last time he used it. I look in the fridge
and find a limp tea bag and a carton of milk that's good for another
day or so before it starts demanding the vote, so I make myself a mug
of tea and sit at the kitchen table playing Tetris on my palmtop.
Coloured blocks fall like snowflakes in my mind,
and I drift for a while. But reality keeps intruding: I've got a week's
washing in my suitcase, another week of washing in my room, and while
Pinky and the Brain are at work I can get to the washer/dryer.
(Assuming nobody's left a dead hamster in it again.)
Deliberately ignoring the bills, I get up and
drag my suitcase upstairs. My room is much the way I left it, and I
suddenly realise that I hate living this way: hate the second-hand
furniture designed by aliens from Planet Landlord, hate sharing my
personal space with a couple of hyperintelligent slobs with behavioural
problems and explosive hobbies, hate feeling my future possibilities
hemmed in by my personal vow of poverty—the signature on my Laundry
warrant card. I drag the suitcase into my room through a fog of fatigue
and mild despair, then open it and begin to sort everything into piles
on the floor.
Something snuffles behind me.
I spin round so fast I nearly levitate, hand
fumbling for a mummified monkey's paw that isn't there—then
recognition
cuts in and I breathe again. "You startled me! What are you doing in
there?"
Just the top of her head is visible. She blinks
at me sleepily. "What does it look like?"
I consider my next words carefully. "Sleeping in
my bed?"
She pulls down the duvet far enough to yawn,
mouth pink and grey in the dim light that filters through the new
curtains. "Yeah. Heard you were due back today so I, mmm, pulled a
sickie. Wanted to see you."
I sit down on the side of the bed. Mhari's hair
is mousy-brown with blonde highlights she puts in it every few weeks;
it's cut in short flyaway locks that tangle around my fingers when I
run my hand over her scalp. "Really?"
"Yeah, really." A bare arm reaches out of the
bedding, wraps around my waist, and pulls me down. "Been missing you.
Come here."
I'm meaning to sort my dirty clothing into piles
for the washing machine, but instead all my clothing ends up in a heap
in the middle of the floor, and I end up in a
heap under Mhari, who is naked under
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