My Services Are No Longer Required.
Often I will find myself heading toward Odd-Looking Colleague, shambling along the opposite way with his usual air of being slightly put-upon.
I will feel my shoulders involuntarily tense. Here it comes, I think.
We begin to pass each other. On cue, he raises his eyebrows in a world-weary manner and says
‘Alright fella?’ in a tone that suggests some mutual complicity in his woe.
Fella. For goodness sake.
It’s the middle of the afternoon. Something has been troubling me. I realise what it is, and turn to Uncannily Similar to Myself Colleague.
Me: I haven’t seen Odd-Looking all day. Do you know where he is?
USTMC: [With an entirely unwarranted explosive vehemence] In HELL I fucking hope.
USTMC spins in his chair and fixes me with an alarmingly intense stare.
USTMC: Fella. Fella! He must be some sort of cock if he thinks it’s ok to fucking call anyone ‘fella’. Fuck me. Either you know someone well enough to have learnt their name, or you just don’t fucking TALK TO THEM AT ALL. I don’t know who the fuck he is. So why’s he walking around like some sort of fucking I don’t fucking know what calling me fucking ‘fella’?
USTMC fixes Odd-Looking’s empty desk with a look of the blackest malevolence.
USTMC: [Clearly re-living a past situation involving the use of the word ‘fella’] Cunt.
He swivels back to his own desk and resumes whatever it was he was doing. And is promptly completely alright again.
Identity theft is one thing, but this man has stolen my personality. Who do I call for that one?