I have a parking space.
I have a routine. I stride to my desk.
Resolute and punctual, smart and efficient, controlled and organised; I deliver and I walk tall.
Dates turned down and alcohol refused; I watch films and drink cocoa, I read books and I sleep. No. No thank you. Always no. No surprises. No disappointments. No hangovers.
I have a team that follows rules. Everyone fits in. Eventually.
Please tell the new employee, ‘Don’t put that there. Don’t call the boss Fi.’ Professionalism rules.
Emotions contained; I deal with him politely, waiting by my car. The boss doesn’t give lifts. He won’t ask again.
But he does.
His tears appease me, I offer cab fare. Her final breath – he might miss her final breath. The boss gives a lift. Just this once.
I wait outside. A good boss shows concern of course. Emotionally detached, of course.
The lift home, politely listening, the silent sympathy, the “just one” drink.
Glowing cheeks, secret glances and office whispers to lunch-time walks, and dizzy frolics in Autumn leaves under naked trees.
Loosing my grip, dropping, whirling, tumbling, falling.
I give, I trust, I walk slower. I relax and I say yes. Yes to impulses. Yes to sharing, yes to bending rules. Yes, yes, yes!
Yes to surprises?
The increasing mystery and the endless waiting. The uncertainty of being stood up and the falling bank balance. The phone call from the dead mother.
I lose control. I am disorganised. I am late. I am hung over and I am confused. I don’t drive. I am unsure.
Violated, punctured, deflated.
He clears off. I clean up. I get clean. I knock out the dents in my armour. I watch films, I drink cocoa, I read books and I sleep.