Oh I do like a man in a cowboy hat, even if it's pink.
Last night was Madge's dinner for lovely Tweedy who recently left us at Pedantic to pursue a new life in the Art World - with capitals. I miss him. Not just because he might read this, but because I do really miss him. His desk has already been pillaged. Someone took his monitor, another person grabbed his keyboard. Richard had his Well Man pills and Brett (pictured) took his extra-strong peppermints and his hairspray - not that he needs it. Now the desk sits there, empty and forlorn.
I remember the first day he came to Pedantic. I was not predisposed to like him. Posh Boy with a posh boy's name, and a posh address, recommended to us in copperplate, by a hand-delivered letter from an equally posh agent. He survived the rigors of Mr T's interview process - the equivalent of being pinned against a wall while being savaged by a faux-friendly terrier - and arrived to sit at the desk of hell in reception, the prey of every motor-cycle courier, tattooed delivery man from Eastern Europe and Souf' Londoner called Shane. After a week of listening to the phone ring I gently prompted him that he might need, eventually, to answer it. 'I feel nervous picking it up.' He replied, sheepishly. Oh god, I sympathised. On my first day here, in an open office, surrounded by twenty people equally indisposed to like me, I had to apply my broad Scottish accent to 'erm, Pedantic Press, can I help you?' and then flail around pressing buttons ineptly, cutting them off, announcing them to others, more highly regarded than I who didn't deign to answer their own phones but had me, the minion, to do it for them. I had expected Tweedy to be over-confident and over-entitled, and there he was, cowering - a founder member of the Slight Social Anxiety Club, of which I was the president.
And now he's packed up his wingtips and Zegna suit and gone off to do something posh with pictures.
The place won't be the same without him and Madge has gathered some of us to say goodbye. I have house envy. She comes to mine and says it's bigger than hers - it isn't. However, her house sooo white. Pristine. So finished. Not for Madge the scruffy Ikea laminate flooring with more chips than a Happy Meal, or the acne-scarred walls painted in hysterical colours. Her walls are as smooth as Anton du Beke. She has high ceilings with mouldings, and pictures everywhere. Her husband, she tells us, was up a ladder painting a ceiling last night. Sigh. And he barbecued the lamb. And the cowboy hat is actually his. I really, really want a man who paints ceilings and understands the value of a cowboy hat, even if his is more suited for one of the Village People. He's from New Zealand, of course, where men are men, and don't say much. The hat, therefore, is something of a surprise. But he says he also has a buckle. And he's tall. Oh my.
I fell of the Dukan wagon with a thump and am now being dragged through the gravel, my arms flailing, screaming, with a hangover the size of Kent, and the calorie intake to match. Prosecco, wine, fig tart, rice, breadsticks, crisps, more crisps, red-velvet layer cake, rocky road squares, cocktail sausages and baguette.
Even the cat is disgusted with me.
