Very much just another blog

RIP foolish desk buddy

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For years people have wondered upon the fibre of human beings: books, theses, poems, novels, whole lives have been dedicated to the pursuit of understanding: how are we made, what is it that makes us behave in the ways we do. Maslow, Lacan, Skinner, Rogers, Freud (dirty old fruit that he was), even someone walking home after a puzzling day at work, might wonder what it is that puts us together and fixes us there – or, indeed, allows us to be more. Some whittle it down to a simple question: is it nature or nurture, they ask? Meh. Too simple: this isn’t a binary question and answer session.

Friends, this is not a simple question and therefore there is no simple answer. And, actually, even if we were conclusively and definitely made in one way or the other, you’d still have to get your head ’round what to do about it. For my part, I think there are things about people that are hard-coded. And there are ways it is clear that people have, through a stream of circumstance and experience, learned patterns of behaviour that seem to spring from them just as effortlessly. These things impact against each other so that one person will respond to a given challenge differently to someone else. And this in turn bears its own fruit, so the tangled web goes on.

Have that Freud: the way I behave has nothing to do with the fact they you perved on your nanny; and everything to do with the path I walked getting here. Probably.

So here we are: the complex pattern of a human means that we can never be completely sure of our emotional equations. And, beyond this, to add intracay to complexity, there are a few things that we will not only NEVER understand, we have no hope of ever having control over. I’m talking about hormones. And I seriously don’t care how hard Pavlov rings his fucking bell, Estrogen is the boss of me. Estrogen is my MASTER. Right now, in fact. And this is how it goes:

Yesterday morning on the train I was listening, as I always do, to the Today Prgramme. At ten to eight, or thereabouts, Thought for the Day streamed in. A few minutes later I noticed that I was crying. Quite a lot.  This was the beginning: I was pre-menstrual.

This is bad, I thought. Although I took time to forgive myself for eating everything but my desk the day before on the grounds that I forgot my dates and it’s reasonable for a pre menstrual woman to eat slightly more than a 6’5 man could manage without feeling remotely guilty about it.

I wiped the tears from my face and carefully pushed my makeup from one cheek to the other. This’ll show everyone, I thought: I’m about to committ hari kari in the rush hour – beat a random commuter with a brick while weeping gently – the least I can do is look like a proper mental.

Mentally I tortured everyone that crossed my angry path. Finally I got into work and wedged myself behind my desk as best I could; half underneath with a pleading look that I hoped said something like: please make me tea, please love me; I have gun. My desk buddy arrived. I should, at this crucial juncture, tell you that I love my desk buddy; we look after each other with hugs, high fives, tea and wit. But. BUT. He was in a filthy mood. Black, black filth. He threw his bag down, muttered about transport, snapped at me something I didn’t catch.

Don’t start. Seriously. I’m pre-mentrual, you’re in danger, I said.

He gives me ‘a look’.

You shouldn’t give pre menstrual women ‘a look’; it really winds us up. I don’t let it go:

I’m deadly serious. You dealt with a bus, I’m dealing with Hor-fucking-mones. Don’t start.

You don’t think *I* deal with PMT?

People can hear now. Someone takes a breath in.

I presume you mean your girlfriend’s PMT?

He stormed off.

I re loaded my gun.

He returned.

Were it not for the fact that I have the attention span of retarded flea at this time of the month I would definitely have shot my foolish desk buddy into three hundred and ninety seven million different pieces – you can query this figure if you dare but don’t, really; I’ve not finished with my gun yet.

Sorry, he said. It’s just the buses and the shitty commute into work. I didn’t mean it. Do you want some tea?

I swear I could have wept. I swear, in fact, I maybe did a little bit. And he made me two cups so I wasn’t disappointed when the first one finished. My desk buddy is brilliant. All I need him to do now is help me understand this commuting restraining order thingy and I’ll be cooking on gas.


Written by elikafm

February 24, 2010 at 9:56 am

Posted in Uncategorized

One Response

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  1. I tiptoe carefully in to your comments area and gently leave this http://www.darcoff.com/prints/fine-art-prints/butt.php for you, in case it’s of use.

    All of which reminds me of ‘Summer with Monika’ by Roger McGough:

    was your night out
    and just before you went
    you put your SCOWLS
    in a tumbler
    halffilled with steradent

    (so that they’d keep nice and fresh for me)

    David J Foster

    February 24, 2010 at 1:27 pm

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